THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


c 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 


B7  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

Novels 

MBS.  MABTIN'S  MAW 
ALICE  AND  A  FAMILY 
CHANGING  WINDS 

Short  Stories 

EIGHT  O'CLOCK  AND  OTHER  STUDIES 

Plays 

FOUB  IEISH  PLATS 
JANE  CLEGG 
JOHN  FEBGUSOW 


THE 

FOOLISH  LOVERS 


BY 

ST.  JOHN  G.  ERVINE 

Author  of  "Changing  Winds," 
"John  Ferguson,"  etc. 


U3eto  gorfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1920 

All  rights  reserved 


•  COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published,  April,  1920 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 

who  asked  me  to  write 

a  story  without  any 

"  bad  words  "  in  it; 

and 

TO 

MRS.  J.  0.  HANNAY 

who  asked  me  to  write 

a  story  without  any 

"  Sea  "  in  it. 


2039552 


THE  FIRST  BOOK 

OP 
THE  FOOLISH  LOVEES 


Why,  'tis  an  office  of  discovery,  love! 

The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Love  unpaid  does  soon  disband. 

ANDBEW  MABVELL. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

THE  FIRST  CHAPTER 


IF  you  were  to  say  to  an  Ulster  man,  "Who  are  the  proud- 
est people  in  Ireland?"  he  would  first  of  all  stare  at  you 
as  if  he  had  difficulty  in  believing  that  any  intelligent  per- 
son could  ask  a  question  with  so  obvious  an  answer,  and 
then  he  would  reply,  ' '  Why,  the  Ulster  people,  of  course ! ' ' 
And  if  you  were  to  say  to  a  Ballyards  man,  ' '  Who  are  the 
proudest  people  in  Ulster?"  he  would  reply  ...  if  he 
deigned  to  reply  at  all  ...  "A  child  would  know  that! 
The  Ballyards  people,  of  course!" 

It  is  difficult  for  anyone  who  is  not  a  native  of  the  town, 
to  understand  why  the  inhabitants  of  Ballyards  should 
possess  so  great  a  pride  in  their  birthplace.  It  is  not  a 
large  town  ...  it  is  not  even  the  largest  town  in  the  county 
.  .  .  nor  has  it  any  notable  features  to  distinguish  it 
from  a  dozen  other  towns  of  similar  size  in  that  part  of 
Ireland.  Millreagh,  although  it  is  now  a  poor,  scattered 
sort  of  place,  was  once  of  great  importance:  for  the  mail- 
boats  sailed  from  its  harbour  to  Port  Michael  until  the 
steamship  owners  agreed  that  Port  Michael  was  too  much 
exposed  to  the  severities  of  rough  weather,  and  chose  an- 
other harbour  elsewhere.  Millreagh  mourns  over  its  lost 
glory,  attributable  in  no  way  to  the  fault  of  Millreagh, 
but  entirely  to  the  inscrutable  design  of  Providence  which 
arranged  that  Port  Michael,  and  not  Kirkmull,  should  lie 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Irish  Sea;  and  every  Sunday 

3 


4>  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

morning,  after  church,  and  sometimes  on  Sunday  after- 
noon, the  people  walk  along  the  breakwater  to  the  light- 
house and  remind  each  other  of  the  days  when  their  town 
was  of  consequence.  "We  spent  a  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand pounds  on  our  harbour,"  they  say  to  each  other, 
"and  then  the  Scotch  went  and  did  the  like  of  that !" — the 
like  of  that  being  their  stupidity  in  living  in  an  exposed 
situation.  Millreagh  does  not  admit  that  it  has  suffered  any 
more  than  a  temporary  diminishment  of  its  greatness,  and 
it  makes  optimistic  and  boastful  prophecies  of  the  fortune 
and  repute  that  will  come  to  it  when  the  engineers  make  a 
tunnel  between  Scotland  and  Ireland.  Sometimes  an  ar- 
ticle on  the  Channel  Tunnel  will  appear  in  the  Newsletter 
or  the  Whig,  and  for  weeks  afterwards  Millreagh  lives  in 
a  fever  of  expectancy ;  for  whatever  else  may  be  said  about 
the  Tunnel,  this  is  certain  to  be  said  of  it,  that  it  will  start, 
in  Ireland,  from  Millreagh.  On  that  brilliant  hope,  Mill- 
reagh, tightening  its  belt,  lives  in  a  fair  degree  of  happi- 
ness, eking  out  its  present  poverty  by  fishing  and  by  let- 
ting lodgings  in  the  summer. 

Pickie,  too,  has  much  reputation,  more,  perhaps,  than 
Millreagh,  for  it  is  a  popular  holiday  town  and  was  once 
described  in  the  Evening  Telegraph  as  "the  Blackpool  of 
Ireland."  This  description,  although  it  was  apt  enough, 
offended  the  more  pretentious  people  in  Pickie  who  were 
only  mollified  when  the  innocent  reporter,  in  a  later  article, 
altered  the  description  to,  "the  Brighton  of  Ireland." 
With  consummate  understanding  of  human  character,  he 
added,  remembering  the  Yacht  Club,  that  perhaps  the  most 
accurate  description  of  Pickie  would  be  "the  Cowes  of 
Ireland. ' '  In  this  way,  the  reporter,  who  subsequently  be- 
came a  member  of  parliament  and  made  much  money, 
pleased  the  harmless  vanity  of  the  lower,  the  middle  and 
the  upper  classes  of  Pickie;  and  for  a  time  they  were  "ill 
to  thole"  on  account  of  the  swollen  condition  of  their 
heads,  and  it  became  necessary  to  utter  sneers  at  "ham- 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  5 

and-egg  parades"  and  "the  tripper  element"  and  to  speak 
loudly  and  frequently  of  the  superior  merits  of  Portrush, 
"a  really  nice  place,"  before  they  could  be  persuaded  to 
believe  that  PicMe,  like  other  towns,  is  inhabited  by  com- 
mon human  beings. 

Ballyards  never  yielded  an  inch  of  its  pride  of  place  to 
Millreagh  or  to  Pickie.  "What's  an  ouF  harbour  when 
there's  no  boat  in  it?"  Ballyards  said  to  Millreagh;  and, 
"Sure,  the  man  makes  his  livin'  sellin'  sausages!"  it  said  to 
Pickie  when  Pickie  bragged  of  the  great  grocer  who  had 
joined  the  Yacht  Club  in  order  that  he  might  issue  a  chal- 
lenge for  the  Atlantic  Cup.  Tunnels  and  attractive  sea- 
boards were  extraneous  things  that  might  bring  fortune,  but 
could  not  bring  merit,  to  those  lucky  enough  to  possess  them ; 
but  Ballyards  had  character  ...  its  men  were  meritable 
men  .  .  .  and  Ballyards  would  not  exchange  the  least  of 
its  inhabitants  for  ten  tunnels.  Nor  did  Ballyards  abate 
any  of  its  pride  before  the  ancient  and  indisputable  renown 
of  Dunbar  which  distils  a  whiskey  that  has  soothed  the  gul- 
lets of  millions  of  men  throughout  the  world.  When  Pat- 
rickstown  bragged  of  its  long  history  ...  it  was  once  the 
home  of  the  kings  of  Ulster  .  .  .  and  tried  to  make  the 
world  believe  that  St.  Patrick  was  buried  in  its  cathedral, 
Ballyards,  magnificently  unperturbed,  murmured:  "Your 
population  is  goin '  down ! " ;  nor  does  it  manifest  any  respect 
for  Greenry,  which  has  a  member  of  parliament  to  itself  and 
has  twice  the  population  of  Ballyards.  "  It 's  an  ugly  hole, ' ' 
says  Ballyards,  "an'  it's  full  of  Papishes!" 

Millreagh  and  Pickie  openly  sneer  at  Ballyards,  and 
Greenry  affects  to  be  unaware  of  it,  but  the  pride  of  Bally- 
ards remains  unaltered,  incapacle  of  being  diminished,  in- 
capable even  of  being  increased  .  .  .  for  pride  cannot  go  to 
greater  lengths  than  the  pride  of  Ballyards  has  already  gone 
.  .  .  and  in  spite  of  contention  and  denial,  it  asserts,  invinc- 


6  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

ibly  persistent,  that  it  is  the  finest  and  most  meritable  town 
in  Ireland.  When  sceptics  ask  for  proofs,  Ballyards  re- 
plies, "We  don 't  need  proofs ! "  A  drunken  man  said,  on  a 
particularly  hearty  Saturday  night,  that  Ballyards  was  the 
finest  town  in  the  world,  but  the  general  opinion  of  his  fel- 
low-townsmen was  that  this  claim,  while  very  human,  was 
excessively  expressed.  London,  for  example,  was  bigger 
than  Ballyards.  So  was  New  York!  .  .  .  The  drunken 
man,  when  he  had  recovered  his  sobriety,  admitted  that  this 
was  true,  but  he  contended,  and  was  well  supported  in  his 
contention,  that  while  London  and  New  York  might  be  big- 
ger than  Ballyards,  neither  of  these  cities  were  inhabited  by 
men  of  such  independent  spirit  as  the  men  of  Ballyards.  A 
Ballyards  man,  he  asserted,  was  beholden  to  no  one.  Once, 
and  once  only,  a  Millreagh  man  said  that  a  Ballyards  man 
thought  he  was  being  independent  when  he  was  being  ill- 
bred;  but  Ballyards  people  would  have  none  of  this  talk, 
and,  after  they  had  severely  assaulted  him,  they  drove  the 
Millreagh  man  back  to  his  "stinkin'  wee  town"  and  forbade 
him  ever  to  put  his  foot  in  Ballyards  again.  "You  know 
what  you  11  get  if  you  do.  Your  head  in  your  hands ! ' '  was 
the  threat  they  shouted  after  him.  And  surely  the  wide 
world  knows  the  story  .  .  .  falsely  credited  to  other  places 
.  .  .  which  every  Ballyards  child  learns  in  its  cradle,  of  the 
man  who,  on  being  rebuked  in  a  foreign  city  for  spitting, 
said  to  those  who  rebuked  him,  "I  come  from  the  town  of 
Ballyards,  an'  I'll  spit  where  I  like!" 

ii 

It  was  his  pride  in  his  birthplace  which  sometimes  made 
John  MacDermott  hesitate  to  accept  the  advice  of  his  Uncle 
Matthew  and  listen  leniently  to  the  advice  of  his  Uncle  Wil- 
liam. Uncle  Matthew  urged  him  to  seek  his  fortune  in  for- 
eign parts,  but  Uncle  William  said,  "Bedam  to  foreign  parts 
when  you  can  live  in  Ballyards ! ' '  Uncle  Matthew,  who  had 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  7 

never  been  out  of  Ireland  in  his  life,  had  much  knowledge  of 
the  works  of  English  writers,  and  from  these  works,  he  had 
drawn  a  romantic  picture  of  London.  The  English  city,  in 
his  imagination,  was  a  place  of  marvellous  adventures,  far 
more  wonderful  than  the  ancient  city  of  Bagdad  or  the  still 
more  ancient  city  of  Damascus,  wherein  anything  might 
happen  to  a  man  who  kept  his  eyes  open  or,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  shut.  He  never  tired  of  reading  Mr.  Andrew  Lang's 
Historical  Mysteries,  and  he  liked  to  think  of  himself  sud- 
denly being  accosted  in  the  street  by  some  dark  stranger  de- 
manding to  know  whether  he  had  a  taste  for  adventure. 
Uncle  Matthew  was  not  quite  certain  what  he  would  do  if 
such  a  thing  were  to  happen  to  him :  whether  to  proclaim 
himself  as  eager  for  anything  that  was  odd  and  queer  or  to 
threaten  the  stranger  with  the  police.  "You  might  think  a 
man  was  going  to  lead  you  to  a  hidden  place,  mebbe,  where 
there  'd  be  a  lovely  woman  waiting  to  receive  you,  and  you 
blindfolded  'til  you  were  shown  into  the  room  where  she 
was  .  .  .  and  mebbe  you'd  be  queerly  disappointed,  for  it 
mightn't  be  that  sort  of  a  thing  at  all,  but  only  some  lad 
trying  to  steal  your  watch  and  chain ! ' ' 

He  had  heard  very  unpleasant  stories  of  what  he  called 
the  Confidence  Trick,  whereby  innocent  persons  were  be- 
guiled by  seemingly  amiable  men  into  parting  with  all  their 
possessions!  .  .  . 

"Of  course,"  he  would  admit,  "you'd  never  have  no  ad- 
ventures at  all,  if  you  never  ran  no  risks,  and  mebbe  in  the 
end,  you  do  well  to  chance  things.  It 's  a  queer  pity  a  man 
never  has  any  adventures  in  this  place.  Many's  and 
many's  a  time  I've  walked  the  roads,  thinking  mebbe  I'd 
meet  someone  with  a  turn  that  way,  but  I  never  in  all  my 
born  days  met  anything  queer  or  unusual,  and  I  don 't  sup- 
pose I  ever  will  now ! ' ' 

Uncle  Matthew  had  spoken  so  sadly  and  so  longingly  that 
John  had  deeply  pitied  him.  "Did  you  never  fall  in  love 
with  no  one,  Uncle  Matthew?"  he  asked. 


8  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Och,  indeed  I  did,  John!"  Uncle  Matthew  replied. 
"Many's  and  many's  the  time!  Your  Uncle  William  used 
to  make  fun  of  me  and  sing  'Shilly-shally  with  the  wee  girls, 
ha,  ha,  ha!'  at  me  when  I  was  a  wee  lad  because  I  was  al- 
ways running  after  the  young  girls  and  sweethearting  with 
them.  He  never  ran  after  any  himself :  he  was  always  look- 
ing for  birds'  nests  or  tormenting  people  with  his  tricks. 
He  was  a  daft  wee  fellow  for  devilment,  was  your  Uncle 
William,  and  yet  he's  sobered  down  remarkably.  Some- 
times, I  think  he  got  more  romance  out  of  his  tormenting 
and  nesting  than  I  got  out  of  my  courting,  though  love's  a 
grand  thing,  John,  when  you  can  get  it.  I  was  always  fall- 
ing in  love,  but  sure  what  was  the  good  ?  I  never  could  be 
content  with  the  way  the  girls  talked  about  furniture  and 
us  setting  up  house  together,  when  all  the  time  I  was  want- 
ing hard  to  be  rescuing  them  from  something.  No  wonder 
they  wouldn't  have  me  in  the  end,  for,  of  course,  it's  very 
important  to  get  good  furniture  and  to  set  up  a  house  some- 
where nice  and  snug  .  .  .  but  I  never  was  one  for  scringing 
and  scrounging  .  .  .  my  money  always  melted  away  from 
the  minute  I  got  it  ...  and  I  couldn't  bear  the  look  of  the 
furniture-men  when  you  asked  them  how  much  it  would 
cost  to  furnish  a  house  on  the  hire-system ! ' ' 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  reflecting  perhaps  on  the  pleas- 
ures that  had  been  missed  by  him  because  of  his  inability 
to  save  money  and  his  dislike  of  practical  concerns.  Then 
in  a  brisker  tone,  as  if  he  were  consoling  himself  for  his 
losses,  he  said,  "Oh,  well,  there's  consolation  for  every- 
one somewhere  if  they'll  only  take  the  trouble  to  look 
for  it,  and  after  all  I've  had  a  queer  good  time  reading 
books!" 

"Mebbe,  Uncle  Matthew,"  John  suggested,  "if  you'd 
left  Ballyards  and  gone  to  London,  you'd  have  had  a  whole 
lot  of  adventures ! ' ' 

"Mebbe  I  would,"  Uncie  Matthew  replied.  "Though 
sometimes  I  think  I  'm  not  the  sort  that  has  adventures,  for 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  9 

there's  men  in  the  world  would  find  something  romantic 
wherever  they  went,  and  I  daresay  if  Lord  Byron  were  liv- 
ing here  in  Ballyards,  he'd  have  the  women  crying  their 
eyes  out  for  him.  That  was  a  terrible  romantic  man,  John ! 
Lord  Byron !  A  terrible  man  for  falling  in  love,  God  bless 
him!  .  .  ." 

It  was  Uncle  Matthew  who  urged  John  to  read  Shakes- 
peare— "a  very  plain-spoken,  knowledgable  man,  Shakes- 
peare ! ' ' — and  Lord  Byron — ' '  a  terrible  bad  lord,  John,  but 
a  fine  courter  of  girls  and  a  grand  poet ! ' ' — and  Herrick — 
' '  a  queer  sort  of  minister,  that  man  Herrick,  but  a  good  poet 
all  the  same!" — and  Dickens.  Dickens  was  the  incompar- 
able one  who  filled  dull  streets  with  vital  figures :  Sam  Wel- 
ler  and  Mr.  Pickwick  and  Mr.  Micawber  and  Mrs.  Nickleby 
and  Mr.  Mantalini  and  Steerforth  and  David  Copperfield 
and  Barkis ;  and  terrible  figures :  Fagan  and  Bill  Sykes  and 
Uriah  Heap  and  Squeers  and  Mr.  Murdstone  and  that  fear- 
ful man  who  drank  so  much  that  he  died  of  spontaneous 
combustion ;  and  pathetic  figures :  Sidney  Carton  and  Little 
Nell  and  Oliver  Twist  and  Nancy  and  Dora  and  Little  Dor- 
ritt  and  the  Little  Marchioness. 

' '  You  'd  meet  the  like  of  them  any  minute  of  the  day  in 
London, ' '  said  Uncle  Matthew.  ' '  You  'd  mebbe  be  walking 
up  a  street,  the  Strand,  mebbe,  or  in  Hyde  Park  or  White- 
chapel,  and  in  next  to  no  time  at  all,  you'd  run  into  the 
whole  jam-boiling  of  them.  London's  the  queer  place  for 
seeing  queer  people.  Never  be  content,  John,  when  you're 
a  man,  to  stay  on  in  this  place  where  nothing  ever  happens 
to  anyone,  but  quit  off  out  of  it  and  see  the  world.  There's 
all  sorts  in  London,  black  men  and  yellow  men,  and  I 
wouldn't  be  surprised  bul  there's  a  wheen  of  Red  Indians, 
too,  with  feathers  in  their  head !  .  .  . " 

"I'd  be  afeard  of  them  fellows,"  said  John.  "They'd 
scalp  you,  mebbe ! ' ' 

"Ah,  sure,  the  peelers  wouldn't  let  them,"  said  Uncle 
Matthew.  ' '  And  anyway  you  needn  't  go  near  them.  They 


10  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

keep  that  sort  down  by  the  Docks  and  never  let  them  near 
the  places  where  the  fine,  lovely  women  live.  London 's  the 
place  to  see  the  lovely  women,  John,  all  dressed  up  in  silk 
dresses,  for  that's  where  the  high-up  women  go  ...  in  the 
Season,  they  call  it  ...  and  they  take  their  young,  lovely 
daughters  with  them,  grand  wee  girls  with  nice  hair  and 
fine  complexions  and  a  grand  way  of  talking  ...  to  get 
them  married,  of  course.  I  read  in  a  book  one  time,  there 
was  a  young  fellow,  come  of  a  poor  family,  was  walking  in 
one  of  the  parks  where  the  quality-women  take  their  horses 
every  day,  and  a  young  and  lovely  girl  was  riding  up  and 
down  as  nice  as  you  like,  when  all  of  a  sudden  her  horse  ran 
away  with  her.  The  young  fellow  never  hesitated  for  a 
minute,  but  jumped  over  the  railings  and  stopped  the  horse, 
and  the  girl  was  that  thankful  and  pleased,  him  and  her 
was  married  after.  And  she  was  a  lord 's  daughter,  John ! 
A  very  high-up  lord !  She  belonged  to  a  queer  proud  fam- 
ily, but  she  wasn't  too  proud  to  fall  in  love  with  him,  and 
they  had  a  grand  time  together ! ' ' 

' '  Were  they  rich  ? ' '  said  John. 

Uncle  Matthew  nodded  his  head.  "It  would  be  a  great 
thing  now,"  he  said,  "if  a  lord's  daughter  was  to  take  a 
fancy  to  you!  ..." 

"I'd  have  to  be  queer  and  adventurous  for  the  like  of 
that  to  happen  to  me,  Uncle  Matthew,"  John  exclaimed. 
He  had  never  seen  a  lord's  daughter,  but  he  had  seen  Lady 
Castlederry,  a  proud  and  beautiful  woman,  who  seemed  to 
be  totally  unaware  of  his  existence  when  he  passed  by  her 
on  the  road. 

"Well,  and  aren't  you  as  fond  of  adventure  as  anybody 
in  the  wide  world  ? ' '  Uncle  Matthew  retorted. 

' '  Indeed,  that 's  true, ' '  John  admitted,  ' '  but  then  I  never 
had  any  adventures  in  my  born  days,  and  you  yourself 
would  like  to  have  one,  but  you  've  never  had  any ! "  , 

Uncle  Matthew  sat  quietly  in  his  chair  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  he  drew  his  nephew  close  to  him  and  stroked  his  hair. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  11 

' '  Come  here  'til  I  whisper  to  you, ' '  he  said.  ' '  D  'yon  know 
why  I  never  had  any  adventures,  John  ? ' ' 

"No,  Uncle  Matthew,  I  do  not!' 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  then,  though  I  never  admitted  it  to 
anyone  else  in  the  world,  and  I'll  mebbe  never  admit  it 
again.  I  never  had  any  because  I  was  afraid  to  have 
them!" 

"Afeard,  Uncle  Matthew?"  John  exclaimed.  He  had 
not  yet  trimmed  his  tongue  to  say  ' '  afraid. ' ' 

"Aye,  son,  heart-afraid.  There's  many  a  fine  woman  I'd 
have  run  away  with,  only  I  was  afraid  mebbe  I  'd  be  caught. 
You'll  never  have  no  adventures  if  you're  afraid  to  have 
them,  that 's  a  sure  and  certain  thing ! ' ' 

John  struggled  out  of  his  Uncle's  embrace  and  turned 
squarely  to  face  him. 

"I'm  not  afeard,  Uncle  Matthew,"  he  asserted. 

"Are  you  not,  son?" 

"I'm  not  afeard  of  anything.  I'd  give  anybody  their 
cowardy-blow !  ..." 

"There's  few  people  in  the  world  can  say  that,  John!" 
Uncle  Matthew  said. 


111 

People  often  said  of  Uncle  Matthew  that  he  was  "quare 
in  the  head,"  but  John  had  never  noticed  anything  queer 
about  him.  Mrs.  MacDermott,  finding  her  son  in  the  attic 
where  Uncle  Matthew  kept  his  books,  reading  an  old,  torn 
copy  of  Smollett's  translation  of  Gil  Bias,  had  said  to  him, 
"Son,  dear,  quit  reading  them  oul'  books,  do,  or  you'll 
have  your  mind  moidhered  like  your  Uncle  Matthew!" 
And  Willie  Logan,  tormenting  him  once  because  he  had  re- 
fused to  acknowledge  his  leadership,  had  called  after  him 
that  his  Uncle  Matthew  was  astray  in  the  mind.  It  was  a 
very  great  satisfaction  to  John  that  just  as  Willie  Logan 
uttered  his  taunt,  Uncle  William  came  round  McCracken's 


12  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

corner  and  heard  it.  Uncle  William,  a  hasty,  robust  man, 
had  clouted  Willie  Logan's  head  for  him  and  sent  him 
home  howling. 

"Go  home  and  learn  your  manners,"  he  had  shouted  at 
the  blubbering  boy.  "Go  home  and  learn  your  manners, 
you  ill-bred  brat,  you ! ' ' 

Uncle  William  had  spoken  very  gravely  and  tenderly  to 
John  after  that  affair,  as  they  walked  home  together. 
' '  Never  let  anyone  make  little  of  your  Uncle  Matthew ! "  he 
had  said  to  his  nephew.  ' '  He 's  a  well-read  man,  for  all  his 
queer  talk,  and  many's  a  wise  thing  he  says  when  you're 
not  expecting  it.  I  never  was  much  of  a  one  for  trusting 
to  books  myself  ...  I  couldn  't  give  my  mind  to  them  some- 
how .  .  .  but  I  have  a  great  respect  for  books,  all  the  same. 
It  isn't  every  man  can  spare  the  time  for  learning  or  has 
the  inclination  for  it,  but  we  can  all  pay  respect  to  them 
that  has,  whatever  sort  of  an  upbringing  we  've  got ! ' ' 

It  was  then  that  John  MacDermott  learned  to  love  his 
Uncle  William  almost  as  much  as  he  loved  his  Uncle  Mat- 
thew. He  had  always  liked  Uncle  William  .  .  .  for  he  was 
his  uncle,  of  course,  and  a  kind  man  in  spite  of  his  rough, 
quick  ways  and  sharp  words  .  .  .  but  Uncle  Matthew  had 
commanded  his  love.  There  had  been  times  when  he  al- 
most disliked  Uncle  William  .  .  .  the  times  when  Uncle 
William  made  fun  of  Uncle  Matthew 's  romantic  talk.  John 
would  be  sitting  in  front  of  the  kitchen  fire,  before  the  lamp 
was  lit,  listening  while  his  Uncle  Matthew  told  him  stories 
of  high,  romantical  things,  of  adventures  in  aid  of  beautiful 
women,  and  of  life  freely  given  for  noble  purposes,  until 
he  was  wrought  up  into  an  ecstasy  of  selflessness  and  long- 
ing .  .  .  and  then  Uncle  William  would  come  into  the 
kitchen  from  the  shop,  stumbling,  perhaps,  in  the  dark,  and 
swear  because  the  lamp  was  not  lit. 

Once,  after  he  had  listened  for  a  few  moments  to  one  of 
Uncle  Matthew's  tales,  he  had  laughed  bitterly  and  said, 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  18 

"I  declare  to  my  good  God,  but  you'd  be  in  a  queer  way, 
the  whole  pack  of  you,  if  I  was  to  quit  the  shop  and  run 
up  and  down  the  world  looking  for  adventures  and  women 
in  distress.  I  tell  you,  the  pair  of  you,  it 's  a  queer  adven- 
ture taking  care  of  a  shop  and  making  it  prosper  and  earn- 
ing the  keep  of  the  house.  There's  no  lovely  woman  hiding 
behind  the  counter  'til  the  young  lord  comes  and  delivers 
her,  but  by  the  Holy  Smoke,  there's  a  terrible  lot  of  hard 
work!" 

It  had  seemed  to  John  then,  as  he  contemplated  his 
Uncle  Matthew's  doleful  face  and  listened  to  his  plaintive 
admission,  "I  know  I'm  no  help  to  you!"  that  his  Uncle 
William  was  a  cruel-hearted  man,  and  in  his  anger  he  could 
have  struck  him.  But  now,  after  the  affair  with  Willie 
Logan  and  the  talk  about  Uncle  Matthew,  and  remember- 
ing, too,  that  Uncle  William  was  always  very  gentle  with 
Uncle  Matthew,  even  though  his  words  were  sometimes 
rough,  he  felt  that  his  heart  had  ample  room  inside  it  for 
this  rough,  bearded  man  who  made  so  few  demands  on  the 
affection  of  his  family,  and  deserved  so  much. 

John  knew  that  his  Uncle  William  and  his  mother  shared 
the  common  belief  that  Uncle  Matthew  was  "quare,"  but, 
although  he  had  often  thought  about  the  matter,  he  could 
not  understand  why  people  held  this  opinion.  It  was  true 
that  Uncle  .Matthew  had  been  dismissed  from  the  Ballyards 
National  School,  in  which  he  had  been  an  assistant  teacher, 
but  when  John  considered  the  circumstances  in  which  Uncle 
Matthew  had  been  dismissed,  he  felt  satisfied  that  his  uncle, 
so  far  from  having  behaved  foolishly,  had  behaved  with 
great  courage  and  chivalry.  Uncle  Matthew,  so  the  story 
went,  had  been  in  Belfast  a  few  days  after  the  day  on  which 
Queen  Victoria  had  died,  and  had  stopped  in  Royal  Avenue 
for  a  few  moments  to  read  an  advertisement  which  was  ex- 
hibited in  the  window  of  a  haberdasher's  shop.  These  are 
the  words  which  he  read  in  the  advertisement : 


14  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 


WE  MOURN 

OUR 
DEPARTED  QUEEN 

MOURNING  ORDERS  PROMPTLY 
EXECUTED 


"When  he  had  read  through  the  advertisement  twice,  Un- 
cle Matthew  broke  the  haberdasher 's  window ! 

He  was  seized  by  a  policeman,  and  in  due  time  was 
brought  before  the  magistrates  who,  in  addition  to  fining 
him  and  compelling  him  to  pay  for  the  damage  he  had  done, 
caused  the  Resident  Magistrate  to  admonish  him  not  merely 
for  breaking  the  window  and  interfering  with  the  business 
of  a  respectable  merchant,  but  also  for  offering  a  frivolous 
excuse  for  his  behaviour.  Uncle  Matthew  had  said  that 
he  broke  the  window  as  a  protest  against  a  counter  jumper's 
traffic  in  a  nation's  grief.  "I  loved  the  Queen,  sir,"  he 
said,  "and  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  her  death  treated  like 
that ! ' '  This  was  more  than  the  Magistrates  could  endure, 
and  the  Resident  Magistrate  made  an  impatient  gesture  and 
said,  "Teh,  tch,  tch!"  with  his  tongue  against  his  palate. 
He  went  on  to  say  that  Uncle  Matthew's  loyalty  to  the 
Throne  was  very  touching,  very  touching,  indeed,  especially 
in  these  days  when  a  lot  of  people  seemed  to  have  very  lit- 
tle respect  for  the  Royal  Family.  He  thought  that  his 
brother-magistrates  would  agree  with  him.  ("Hear, 
hear!"  and  "Oh,  yes,  yes!"  and  an  "Ulster  was  always 
noted  for  its  loyalty  to  the  Queen!"  from  his  brother-mag- 
istrates.) But  all  the  same,  there  had  to  be  moderation  and 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  15 

reason  in  everything.  It  would  never  do  if  people  were  to 
go  about  the  country  breaking  other  people's  windows  in 
the  name  of  patriotism.  It  was  bad  enough  to  have  a  pack 
of  Nationalists  and  Papists  going  about  the  country,  sing- 
ing disloyal  songs  and  terrorising  peaceable,  lawabiding  loy- 
alists, without  members  of  respected  Protestant  and  Union- 
ist families  like  the  prisoner  .  .  .  for  Uncle  Matthew  was 
in  the  dock  of  the  Custody  Court  and  had  spent  the  night 
in  a  cell  .  .  .  imitating  their  behaviour  in  the  name  of  loy- 
alty. He  had  taken  into  the  consideration  the  fact  that  the 
prisoner  had  acted  from  the  best  motives  and  not  from  any 
feeling  of  disaffection  to  the  Throne,  and  also  the  fact  that 
he  belongs  to  a  respectable  family,  and  so  he  would  not 
send  him  to  gaol.  He  gave  him  the  option  of  paying  a 
fine,  together  with  costs  and  the  bill  for  repairing  the  win- 
dow, or  of  going  to  prison  for  one  calendar  month ;  and  he 
warned  the  public  that  any  other  person  who  broke  a  win- 
dow, however  loyal  he  might  be,  would  be  sent  to  gaol  with- 
out the  option  of  a  fine. 

Uncle  Matthew  had  turned  to  where  Uncle  William  was 
sitting  with  the  family  solicitor  in  the  well  of  the  court, 
and  Uncle  William  had  nodded  his  head  comfortingly. 
Then  the  warder  had  opened  the  door  in  the  side  of  the 
dock,  and  Uncle  Matthew  had  stepped  out  of  the  place  of 
shame  into  the  company  of  the  general  public.  The  solic- 
itor had  attended  to  the  payment  of  the  fine  and  the  cost  of 
repairing  the  fractured  glass,  and  then  Uncle  William  had 
led  Uncle  Matthew  away.  Someone  had  tittered  at  Uncle 
Matthew  as  they  passed  up  the  steps  of  the  court  towards 
the  door,  and  Uncle  William,  disregarding  the  fact  that  he 
was  in  a  court  of  law,  had  turned  on  him  very  fiercely,  and 
had  said  "Damn  your  sowl!  ..."  but  a  policeman,  saying 
"S-s-sh I",  had  bustled  him  out  of  the  court  before  he  could 
complete  his  threat.  And  an  old  woman,  with  a  shawl 
happed  about  her  head,  had  gazed  after  Uncle  Matthew  and 
said,  ' '  The  poor  creature !  Sure,  he 's  not  right ! ' ' 


16  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

The  arrest  and  trial  of  Uncle  Matthew  had  created  a  great 
scandal  in  Ballyards,  and  responsible  people  went  about 
saying  that  he  had  always  been  "quare"  and  was  getting 
"quarer."  Willie  Logan's  father  had  even  talked  of  the 
asylum.  Whose  windows,  he  demanded,  were  safe  when  a 
fellow  like  that  was  let  loose  on  the  town  ?  Uncle  William 
had  gone  to  see  Mr.  Logan  ...  no  one  knew  quite  what  he 
said  to  that  merchant  .  .  .  but  it  was  evident  ever  after 
that  he  had  accepted  Uncle  William's  advice  to  keep  a  civil 
tongue  in  his  head.  The  Reverend  Mr.  McCaughan,  who 
was  manager  of  the  Ballyards  National  School,  went  spe- 
cially to  the  house  of  Mr.  Cairnduff,  the  headmaster  of  the 
school,  to  consult  him  on  the  subject.  He  said  that  some- 
thing would  have  to  be  done  about  the  matter.  The  Mac- 
Dermotts,  he  said,  were  a  highly-respected  family  ...  a 
MacDermott  had  been  an  elder  of  the  church  for  genera- 
tions past  .  .  .  and  he  would  be  very  sorry,  very  sorry,  in- 
deed to  do  anything  to  upset  them,  but  it  was  neither 
right  nor  reasonable  to  expect  parents  to  rest  content  while 
their  children  were  taught  their  lessons  by  a  man  who  was 
both  queer  in  his  manner  and  very  nearly  a  criminal  .  .  . 
for  after  all,  he  had  spent  a  night  in  a  prison-cell  and  had 
stood  in  the  dock  where  thieves  and  forgers  and  wife- 
beaters  and  even  murderers  had  stood ! 

Mr.  Cairnduff  was  in  complete  agreement  with  Mr. 
McCaughan.  He,  too,  had  the  greatest  respect  for  the 
MacDermotts  ...  no  man  could  help  having  respect  for 
them  .  .  .  and  he  might  add  that  he  had  the  greatest  pos- 
sible respect  for  Matthew  MacDermott  himself  ...  a  well- 
read  and  a  kindly  man,  though  a  wee  bit,  just  a  wee  bit 
unbalanced  mebbe !  .  .  . 

"Aye,  but  it's  that  wee  bit  that  makes  all  the  difference, 
Mr.  Cairnduff ! ' '  said  the  minister,  interrupting  the  school- 
master. 

* '  It  is, "  Mr.  Cairnduff  agreed.  ' '  You  're  right  there,  Mr. 
McCaughan.  You  are,  indeed.  All  the  same,  though,  I 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  17 

would  not  like  to  be  a  party  to  anything  that  would  hurt 
the  feelings  of  a  MacDermott,  and  if  it  could  be  arranged  in 
some  way  that  Matthew  should  retire  from  the  profession 
through  ill-health  or  something,  with  a  wee  bit  of  a  pension, 
mebbe,  to  take  the  bad  look  off  the  thing  .  .  .  well,  I  for 
one  would  not  be  against  it ! " 

"You've  taken  the  words  out  of  my  mouth,"  said  the 
minister.  "I  had  it  in  my  mind  that  if  something  of  the 
kind  could  be  arranged !  .  .  . " 

"It  would  be  the  best  for  all  concerned,"  said  Mr.  Cairn- 
duff. 

But  it  had  not  been  possible  to  arrange  something  of  the 
kind.  The  member  for  the  Division  was  not  willing  to  use 
his  influence  with  the  National  Board  of  Education  in  Uncle 
Matthew's  behalf.  He  remembered  that  Uncle  Matthew, 
during  an  election,  had  interrupted  him  in  a  recital  of  his 
services  to  the  Queen,  by  a  reminder  that  he  was  only  a 
militia  man,  and  that  rough,  irreverent  lads,  who  treated  an 
election  as  an  opportunity  for  skylarking  instead  of  im- 
proving their  minds,  had  followed  him  about  his  con- 
stituency, jeering  at  him  for  "a  mileeshy  man."  Uncle 
Matthew,  too,  had  publicly  declared  that  Parnell  was  the 
greatest  man  that  had  ever  lived  in  Ireland  and  was  worth 
more  than  the  whole  of  the  Ulster  Unionist  members  of 
parliament  put  together  .  .  .  which  was,  of  course,  very 
queer  doctrine  to  come  from  a  member  of  an  Ulster  Unionist 
and  Protestant  family.  The  member  for  the  Division  could 
not  agree  with  Mr.  McCaughan  and  Mr.  Cairnduff  that  the 
MacDermotts  were  a  bulwark  of  the  Constitution.  Mat- 
thew MacDermott 's  brother  .  .  .  the  one  who  was  dead 
.  .  .  had  been  a  queer  sort  of  a  fellow.  Lady  Castlederry 
had  complained  of  him  more  than  once!  .  .  .  No,  he  was 
sorry  that,  much  as  he  should  like  to  oblige  Mr.  McCau- 
ghan and  Mr.  Cairnduff,  he  could  not  consent  to  use  his 
influence  to  get  the  Board  to  pension  Matthew  MacDer- 
mott. . 


18  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

' '  That  man 's  a  blether ! ' '  said  the  minister,  as  he  and  the 
schoolmaster  came  away  from  the  member's  house.  "He 
won't  use  his  influence  with  the  Board  because  he  hasn't 
got  any.  We'd  have  done  better,  mebbe,  to  go  to  a 
Nationalist  M.  P.  Those  fellows  have  more  power  in  their 
wee  fingers  than  our  men  have  in  their  whole  bodies.  I 
wonder,  now,  could  we  persuade  Matthew  to  send  in  his 
resignation.  I  can 't  bear  to  think  of  the  Board  dismissing 
him!" 

Uncle  William  solved  their  problem  for  them.  "Don't 
bother  your  heads  about  him, ' '  he  said  when  they  informed 
him  of  their  trouble.  "I'll  provide  for  him  right  enough. 
He'll  send  in  his  resignation  to  you  the  night,  Mr. 
McCaughan.  I'm  sure,  we're  all  queer  and  obliged  to  you 
for  the  trouble  you  have  taken  in  the  matter. ' ' 

' '  Ah,  not  at  all,  not  at  all, ' '  they  said  together. 

' '  And  I  '11  not  forget  it  to  either  of  you,  you  can  depend 
on  that.  I  daresay  Matthew '11  be  a  help  to  me  in  the 
shop!  .  .  ." 

Thus  it  was  that,  unpensioned  and  in  the  shadow  of  dis- 
grace, Uncle  Matthew  left  the  service  of  the  National  Board 
of  Education. 

John  admitted  to  himself,  though  he  would  hardly  have 
admitted  it  to  anyone  else,  that  his  Uncle  Matthew's  be- 
haviour had  been  very  unusual.  He  could  not,  when  in- 
vited to  do  so,  imagine  either  Mr.  McCaughan  or  Mr.  Cairn- 
duff  breaking  the  windows  of  a  haberdasher 's  shop  because 
of  an  advertisement  which  showed,  in  the  opinion  of  some 
reputable  people,  both  feeling  and  enterprise.  Neverthe- 
less, he  did  not  consider  that  Uncle  Matthew,  on  that  occa- 
sion, had  proved  himself  to  be  lacking  in  mental  balance. 
He  said  that  it  was  a  pity  that  people  were  not  more  ready 
than  they  were  to  break  windows,  and  he  was  inclined  to 
think  that  Uncle  Matthew,  instead  of  being  forcibly  retired 
from  the  school,  ought  to  have  been  promoted  to  a  better 
position. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  19 

' '  If  you  go  on  talking  that  way, ' '  his  mother  said  to  him, 
"people '11  think  you're  demented  mad!" 

"I  wouldn't  change  my  Uncle  Matthew  for  the  whole 
world, ' '  John  stoutly  replied. 

' '  No  one 's  asking  you  to  change  him, ' '  Mrs.  MacDermott 
retorted.  "All  we're  asking  you  to  do,  is  not  to  go  about 
imitating  him  with  his  romantic  talk ! ' ' 

iv 

John  did  not  wish  to  imitate  his  Uncle  Matthew  ...  he 
did  not  wish  to  imitate  anyone  .  .  .  for,  although  he  could 
not  discover  that  "quareness"  in  him  which  other  people 
professed  to  discover,  yet  when  he  saw  how  inactive  Uncle 
Matthew  was,  how  dependent  he  was  on  Uncle  William  and, 
to  a  less  extent,  on  Mrs.  MacDermott,  and  how  he  seemed 
to  shrink  from  things  in  life,  which,  when  he  read  about 
them  in  books,  enthralled  him,  John  felt  that  if  he  were  to 
model  his  behaviour  on  that  of  anyone  else,  it  must  not  be 
on  the  behaviour  of  Uncle  Matthew.  Uncle  William  had  a 
quick,  decided  manner  ...  he  knew  exactly  what  he 
wanted  and  often  contrived  to  get  what  he  wanted.  John 
remembered  that  his  Uncle  William  had  said  to  him  once, 
"John,  boy,  if  I  want  a  thing  and  I  can't  get  it,  I  give  up 
wanting  it ! " 

"But  you  can't  help  wanting  things,  Uncle  William," 
John  had  protested. 

"No,  boy,  you  can't"  Uncle  William  had  retorted,  "but 
the  Almighty  God's  given  you  the  sense  to  understand  the 
difference  between  wanting  things  you  can  get  and  wanting 
things  you  can't  get,  and  He  leaves  it  to  you  to  use  your 
sense.  Do  you  never  suppose  that  I  want  something  strange 
and  wonderful  to  happen  to  me  the  same  as  your  Uncle 
Matthew  there,  that  sits  dreaming  half  the  day  over  books? 
What  would  become  of  you  all,  your  ma  and  your  Uncle 
Matthew  and  you,  if  I  was  to  do  the  like  of  that  ?  Where 


20  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

would  your  Uncle  Matthew  get  the  money  to  buy  books  to 
dream  over  if  it  wasn  't  for  me  giving  up  my  dreams  ?  .  .  . " 

John's  heart  had  suddenly  filled  with  pity  for  his  Uncle 
William  whom  he  saw  as  a  thwarted  man,  an  angel  expelled 
from  heaven,  reduced  from  a  proud  position  in  a  splendid 
society  to  the  dull  work  of  one  who  maintains  others  by 
small,  but  prolonged,  efforts.  He  felt  ashamed  of  himself 
and  of  Uncle  Matthew  .  .  .  even,  for  a  few  moments,  of  his 
mother.  Here  was  Uncle  "William,  working  from  dawn 
until  dark,  denying  himself  this  pleasure  and  that,  refusing 
to  go  to  the  "shore"  with  them  in  the  summer  on  the  asser- 
tion that  he  was  a  strong  man  and  did  not  need  holidays 
.  .  .  doing  all  this  in  order  that  he  might  maintain  three 
people  in  comfort  and  .  .  .  yes,  idleness!  Mrs.  MacDer- 
mott  might  be  excluded  from  the  latter  charge,  for  she 
attended  to  the  house  and  the  cooking,  but  how  could  Uncle 
Matthew  and  himself  expect  to  escape  from  it?  Uncle 
Matthew  had  more  hope  than  he  had,  for  Uncle  Matthew 
sometimes  balanced  the  books  for  Uncle  William,  and  did 
odds  and  ends  about  the  shop.  He  would  write  out  the  ac- 
counts in  a  very  neat  hand  and  would  deliver  them,  too. 
But  John  made  no  efforts  at  all.  He  was  the  complete  idler, 
living  on  his  Uncle's  bounty,  and  making  no  return  for  it. 

He  was  now  in  his  second  year  of  monitorship  at  the 
school  where  his  Uncle  Matthew  had  been  a  teacher,  and  was 
in  receipt  of  a  few  pounds  per  annum  to  indicate  that  he 
was  more  than  a  pupil;  but  the  few  pounds  were  insuffi- 
cient to  maintain  him  ...  he  knew  that  .  .  .  and  even  if 
they  had  been  sufficient,  he  was  well  aware  of  the  fact  that 
his  Uncle  William  had  insisted  that  the  whole  of  his  salary 
should  be  placed  in  the  Post  Office  Savings  Bank  for  use 
when  he  had  reached  manhood.  .  .  .  He  made  a  swift  re- 
solve, when  this  consciousness  came  upon  him:  he  would 
quit  the  school  and  enter  the  business,  so  that  he  could  be 
of  help  to  his  Uncle  William. 

"Will  you  let  me  leave  the  school,  Un-cle?"  he  said. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  21 

"I'm  tired  of  the  teaching,  and  I'd  like  well  to  go  into  the 
shop  with  you!" 

Uncle  William  did  not  answer  for  a  little  while.  He 
was  adding  up  a  column  of  figures  in  the  day-book,  and 
John  could  hear  him  counting  quietly  to  himself.  "And 
six  makes  fifty-four  ...  six  and  carry  four ! "  he  said  en- 
tering the  figures  in  pencil  at  the  foot  of  the  column. 
"What's  that  you  say,  John,  boy?" 

"I  want  to  leave  school  and  come  into  the  shop  and  help 
you,"  John  answered. 

"God  love  you,  son,  what  put  that  notion  into  your 
head?" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  burden  to  you,  Uncle  William !" 

' '  A  burden  to  me ! "  Uncle  William  swung  round  on  the 
high  office  stool  and  regarded  his  nephew  intently.  "Man, 
dear,  you're  no  burden  to  me!  Look  at  the  strength  of 
me!  Feel  them  muscles,  will  you?"  He  held  out  his 
tightened  arm  as  he  spoke.  "Do  you  think  a  wee  fellow 
like  you  could  be  a  burden  to  a  man  with  muscles  like  them, 
as  hard  as  iron  ? ' ' 

But  John  was  not  to  be  put  off  by  talk  of  that  sort. 
"You  know  rightly  what  I  mean,"  he  said.  "You  never 
get  no  rest  at  all,  and  here 's  me  still  at  the  school !  .  .  . " 

"Ah,  wheesht  with  you,  boy!"  Uncle  William  inter- 
rupted. "What  sort  of  talk  is  this?  You  will  not  leave 
the  school,  young  man!  The  learning  you're  getting  will 
do  you  a  world  of  benefit,  even  if  you  never  go  on  with  the 
teachering.  You're  a  lucky  wee  lad,  so  you  are,  to  be  get- 
ting paid  to  go  to  school.  There  was  no  free  learning  when 
I  was  a  child,  I  can  tell  you.  Your  grandda  had  to  pay 
heavy  for  your  da  and  your  Uncle  Matthew  and  me.  Every 
Monday  morning,  we  had  to  carry  our  fees  to  the  master. 
Aye,  and  bring  money  for  coal  in  the  winter  or  else  carry 
a  few  sods  of  turf  with  us  if  we  hadn't  the  money  for  it. 
That  was  what  children  had  to  do  when  I  was  your  age, 
John.  I  tell  you  there's  a  queer  differs  these  times  between 


22  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

schooling  from  what  there  was  when  I  was  a  scholar,  and 
you'd  be  the  great  gumph  if  you  didn't  take  advantage  of 
your  good  fortune ! ' ' 

"But  I'd  like  to  help  you,  Uncle  William.  Do  you  not 
understand  me  ?  I  want  to  be  doing  something  for  you ! ' ' 
John  insisted. 

"I  understand  you  well  enough,  son.  You've  been 
moidhering  your  mind  about  me,  but  sure  there's  no  call 
for  you  to  do  that.  No  call  at  all !  Now,  not  another  word 
out  of  your  head!  I've  said  my  say  on  that  subject,  and 
I'll  say  no  more.  Go  on  with  your  learning,  and  when 
you've  had  your  fill  of  it,  we'll  see  what's  to  be  done  with 
you.  How  much  is  twelve  and  nine  ? ' ' 

' '  Twenty-one,  Uncle  William ! ' ' 

"Twenty-one!"  said  Uncle  William,  at  his  day-book 
again.  ' '  Nine  and  carry  one !  .  .  . " 

In  this  way  Uncle  William  settled  John's  offer  to  serve 
in  the  shop,  and  restored  learning  and  literature  to  his 
affection  and  esteem.  John  had  not  given  in  so  easily  as 
the  reader  may  imagine.  He  had  insisted  that  his  Uncle 
William  worked  much  too  hard,  had  even  hinted  that  Uncle 
Matthew  spent  more  time  over  books  than  he  spent  over 
"the  books,"  the  day-book  and  the  ledger;  but  his  Uncle 
William  had  firmly  over-ruled  him. 

' '  Books  are  of  more  account  to  your  Uncle  Matthew  than 
an  oul'  ledger  any  day,"  he  said,  "and  it'll  never  be  said 
that  I  prevented  him  from  reading  them.  We  all  get  our 
happiness  in  different  ways,  John,  and  it  would  be  a  poor 
thing  to  prevent  a  man  from  getting  his  happiness  in  his 
way  just  because  it  didn't  happen  to  be  your  way.  Books 
are  your  Uncle  Matthew 's  heart  's-idol,  and  I  wouldn  't  stop 
him  from  them  for  the  wide  world ! ' ' 

' '  But  he  does  nothing,  Uncle  William, ' '  John  said,  intent 
on  justice,  even  when  it  reflected  on  his  beloved  Uncle. 

"I  know,  but  sure  the  heart  was  taken  out  of  him  that 
time  when  he  was  arrested  for  breaking  the  man's  window. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  23 

It  was  a  terrible  shock  to  him,  that,  and  he  never  overed  it. 
You  must  just  let  things  go  on  as  they're  going.  I  don't 
believe  you'll  be  content  to  be  a  teacher.  Not  for  one 
minute  do  I  believe  that.  But  whatever  you  turn  out  to  be, 
it'll  be  no  harm  to  have  had  the  extra  schooling  you're 
getting,  so  you  '11  stay  on  a  monitor  for  a  while  longer.  And 
now  quit  talking,  do,  or  you  '11  have  me  deafened  with  your 
clatter!" 

Uncle  "William  always  put  down  attempts  to  combat  his 
will  by  assertions  of  that  sort. 

"Are  you  angry  with  me,  Uncle  William?"  John  anxi- 
ously asked. 

' '  Angry  with  you,  son  ? ' '  He  swung  round  again  on  the 
high  stool.  "Come  here  'til  I  show  you  whether  I  am  or 
not!" 

And  then  Uncle  William  gathered  him  up  in  his  arms  and 
crushed  the  boy's  face  into  his  beard.  "God  love  you, 
John,"  he  said,  "how  could  I  be  angry  with  you,  and  you 
your  da's  son!" 

"I  love  you  queer  and  well,  Uncle,"  John  murmured 
shyly. 

"Do  you,  son?     I'm  glad  to  hear  that." 

"Aye.    And  I  love  my  Uncle  Matthew,  too!  ..." 

"That's  right.  Always  love  your  Uncle  Matthew  what- 
ever you  do  or  whatever  happens.  He's  a  man  that  has 
more  need  of  love  nor  most  of  us.  Your  da  loved  him  well, 
John!" 

"Did  he?" 

"Aye,  he  did,  indeed!"  Uncle  William  put  his  pen 
down  on  the  desk,  and  leaning  against  the  ledger,  rested 
his  head  in  the  cup  of  his  hand.  "Your  da  was  a  strange 
man,  John,"  he  said,  "a  queer,  strange  man,  with  a  power- 
ful amount  of  knowledge  in  his  head.  That  man  could 
write  Latin  and  Greek  and  French  and  German,  and  he 
was  the  first  man  in  Ballyards  to  write  the  Irish  language 
.  .  .  and  them  was  the  days  when  people  said  Irish  was  a 


24  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

Papish  language,  and  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
Your  da  never  paid  no  heed  to  anyone  ...  he  just  did 
what  he  wanted  to  do,  no  matter  what  anyone  said  or  who 
was  against  him.  Many 's  the  time  I  've  heard  him  give  the 
minister  his  answer,  and  the  high-up  people,  too.  When 
Lord  Castlederry  came,  bouncing  into  the  town,  ordering 
people  to  do  this  or  to  do  that,  just  because  the  Queen's 
grandson  was  coming  to  the  place,  your  da  stood  up 
fornenst  him  and  said,  as  bold  as  brass,  'The  people  of 
this  town  are  not  Englishmen,  my  lord,  to  be  ordered  about 
like  dogs!  They're  Ballyards  men,  and  a  Ballyards  man 
never  bent  the  knee  to  no  one!'  That  was  what  your  da 
said  to  him,  and  Lord  Castlederry  never  forgot  it  and  never 
forgave  it  neither,  but  he  could  do  no  harm  to  us,  for  the 
MacDermotts  owned  land  and  houses  in  Ballyards  before 
ever  a  Castlederry  put  his  foot  in  the  place.  He  was  a 
proud  man  your  da,  with  a  terrible  quick  temper,  but  as 
kindly-natured  a  man  as  ever  drew  breath.  Your  ma  thinks 
long  for  him  many's  a  time,  though  I  think  there  were 
whiles  he  frightened  her.  Your  Uncle  Matthew  and  me 
is  poor  company  for  her  after  living  with  a  man  like 
that." 

"Am  I  like  my  da,  Uncle  William?  My  ma  says  some- 
times I  am  .  .  .  when  she 's  angry  with  me ! " 

"Sometimes  you're  like  him  and  sometimes  you're  like 
her.  You'll  be  a  great  fellow,  John,  if  you  turn  out  to  be 
like  your  da.  I  tell  you,  boy,  he  was  a  man,  and  there 's  few 
men  these  times  .  .  .  only  a  lot  of  oul'  Jinny- joes,  stroking 
their  beards  and  looking  terrible  wise  over  ha'penny  bar- 
gains!" 

"And  then  he  died,  Uncle  William?" 

"Aye,  son,  he  died.  You  were  just  two  years  old  when 
he  died,  a  little,  wee  child  just  able  to  walk  and  talk.  I 
mind  it  well.  He  called  me  into  the  bedroom  where  he  was 
lying,  and  he  bid  the  others  leave  me  alone  with  him.  Your 
ma  didn't  want  to  go,  but  he  wouldn't  let  her  stay,  and  so 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  85 

she  went,  too.  'William,'  he  said,  when  the  door  was  shut 
behind  them,  'I  depend  on  you  to  look  after  them  all!' 
Them  was  his  very  words,  John,  'I  depend  on  you  to  look 
after  them  all!'  I  couldn't  answer  him,  so  I  just  nodded 
my  head.  He  didn't  say  anything  more  for  a  wee  while, 
but  lay  back  in  the  bed  and  breathed  hard,  for  he  was  in 
pain,  and  couldn't  breathe  easy.  Then,  after  a  wee  while, 
he  looked  round  at  me,  and  he  said,  'I'm  only  thirty-one, 
William,  and  I'm  dying.  And  ouT  Peter  Clancy  up  the 
street,  that's  been  away  in  the  head  since  he  was  a  child,  is 
over  sixty  years  of  age !  .  .  . '  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
spring  out  of  the  bed  when  he  said  that,  the  temper  come 
over  him  so  quick  and  sudden,  but  I  held  him  down  and 
begged  him  to  control  himself,  and  he  quietened  himself. 
I  heard  him  saying,  half  under  his  breath,  'And  God  thinks 
He  knows  how  to  rule  the  world!'  He  died  that  night, 
rebellious  to  the  end!  .  .  .  He  said  he  depended  on  me  to 
look  after  you  all,  and  I've  tried  hard,  John,  as  hard  as  I 
could!" 

His  voice  quavered,  and  he  turned  away  from  his 
nephew.  "Your  da  was  my  hero,"  he  said.  "I'd  have 
shed  my  heart 's  blood  for  him.  It  was  hard  that  him  that 
was  the  best  of  us  should  be  the  first  to  go ! " 

John  stood  by  his  uncle's  side,  very  moved  by  his  dis- 
tress, but  not  knowing  what  to  do  to  comfort  him. 

"My  da  would  be  queer  and  proud  of  you,  Uncle  Wil- 
liam," he  said  at  last,  "queer  and  proud  if  he  could  see 
you!" 

But  Uncle  William  did  not  answer  nor  did  he  look  round. 


It  was  understood,  after  that  conversation  between  John 
and  his  Uncle  William,  that  the  boy  should  remain  at  school 
for  a  year  or  two  longer,  working  as  a  monitor,  not  in  order 
that  he  might  become  a  schoolmaster,  but  so  that  he  might 


26  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

equip  his  mind  with  knowledge.  Mrs.  MacDermott  wished 
her  son  to  become  a  minister.  It  would  be  the  proudest 
day  of  her  life,  she  said,  if  she  could  see  John  standing  in  a 
pulpit,  preaching  a  sermon.  Who  knew  but  that  he  might 
be  one  day  be  the  minister  of  the  Ballyards  First  Presby- 
terian Church  itself,  the  very  church  in  which  his  family 
had  worshipped  their  God  for  generations. 

John,  however,  had  no  wish  to  be  a  minister. 

"You  have  to  be  queer  and  good  to  be  one,"  he  said, 
' '  and  I  'm  not  as  good  as  all  that ! ' ' 

"Well,  mebbe,  you'll  get  better  as  you  get  older,"  Mrs. 
MacDermott  insisted. 

' '  I  might  get  worse, ' '  he  replied.  ' '  It  would  be  a  fearful 
thing  to  be  a  minister,  and  then  find  out  you  wanted  to 
commit  a  sin ! ' ' 

"Ministers  is  like  ourselves,  John,"  Mrs.  MacDermott 
said,  "and  I  daresay  Mr.  McCaughan  sometimes  wants  to 
do  wicked  things,  for  all  he's  such  a  good  man,  and  has  to 
pray  to  God  many's  a  while  for  the  strength  to  resist 
temptation.  That  doesn't  prove  he's  not  fit  to  be  a  minister. 
It  only  shows  he  understands  our  nature  all  the  more  be- 
cause he  has  temptations  himself!" 

But  John  would  not  be  convinced  by  her  arguments.  ' '  I 
don't  know,  ma!"  he  said.  "If  I  wanted  to  be  wicked,  I'm 
afraid  I'd  be  it,  so  don't  ask  me  to  be  a  minister  for  I'd 
mebbe  disgrace  you  with  my  carryings-on ! ' ' 

Mrs.  MacDermott  had  been  deeply  hurt  by  his  refusal  to 
consider  the  ministry. 

" Anybody 'd  think  to  hear  you,"  she  said,  "that  you'd 
made  up  your  mind  to  lead  a  sinful  life.  As  if  a  MacDer- 
mott couldn  't  conquer  his  sins  better  nor  anybody  else ! ' ' 

His  mother,  he  often  observed,  spoke  more  boastfully  of 
the  MacDermotts  than  either  his  Uncle  William  or  his 
Uncle  Matthew. 

John's  final,  overwhelming  retort  to  her  was  this: 
"Would  my  da  have  liked  me  to  be  a  minister?" 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  27 

' '  I  never  knew  what  your  da  liked, ' '  she  retorted ;  ' '  I 
only  knew  what  he  did !  .  .  . " 

' '  Do  you  think  he  would  have  liked  me  to  be  a  minister  1 ' ' 
John  persisted. 

' '  Mebbe  he  wouldn  't,  but  he 's  not  here  now !  .  .  . " 

"You  wouldn't  do  behind  his  back  what  you'd  be  afraid 
to  do  f ornenst  his  face,  would  you  ? ' ' 

"You've  no  right  to  talk  to  me  that  way.  I'm  your 
mother!  ..." 

"You  knew  rightly  he  wouldn't  have  liked  it,"  John 
continued,  inexorably. 

And  then  Mrs.  MacDermott  yielded. 

"You're  your  da  over  again,"  she  complained.  "He 
always  had  his  way  in  the  end,  whatever  was  against  him. 
What  do  you  want  to  be,  then,  when  you  grow  up?" 

"I  don't  know  yet,  ma.  I  only  know  the  things  I  don't 
want  to  be,  and  teaching  is  one  of  them.  And  a  minister's 
another !  Mebbe  I  '11  know  in  a  wee  while ! ' ' 

He  did  not  like  to  tell  her  that  in  his  heart  he  wished  to 
go  in  search  of  adventures.  His  Uncle  Matthew's  imagin- 
ings had  filled  his  mind  with  romantic  desires,  and  he 
longed  to  leave  Ballyards  and  go  somewhere  .  .  .  any- 
where, so  long  as  it  was  a  difficult  and  distant  place  .  .  . 
where  he  would  have  to  contend  with  dangers.  There  were 
times  when  he  felt  that  he  must  instantly  pack  a  bundle  of 
clothes  into  a  red  handkerchief  ...  he  could  buy  one  at 
Conn's,  the  draper's  .  .  .  and  run  away  from  home  and 
stow  himself  in  the  hold  of  a  big  ship  bound  for  America 
or  Australia  or  some  place  like  that  .  .  .  and  was  only  pre- 
vented from  doing  so  by  his  fear  that  his  mother  and  uncles 
would  be  deeply  grieved  by  his  flight.  "It  would  look  as  if 
they  hadn't  been  kind  to  me,"  he  said  in  remonstrance  to 
himself,  "and  that  wouldn't  be  fair  to  them!"  But  al- 
though he  did  not  run  away  from  home,  he  still  kept  the 
strong  desire  in  his  heart  to  go  out  into  a  dangerous  and 
bewildering  world  and  seek  fortune  and  adventures.  "I 


28  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

want  to  fight  things, ' '  he  said  to  himself.  ' '  I  want  to  fight 
things  and  .  .  .  and  win ! ' ' 

Mixed  up  with  his  desire  for  adventure  was  a  vision  of  a 
beautiful  girl  to  whom  he  should  offer  his  love  and  service. 
He  could  not  picture  her  clearly  to  himself  .  .  .  none  of 
the  girls  in  Ballyards  bore  the  slightest  resemblance  to  her. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  he  thought  that  this  beautiful  girl  was 
like  Lady  Castlederry  .  .  .  only  Lady  Castlederry,  some- 
how, although  she  was  so  very  lovely,  had  a  cold  stupid 
look  in  her  eyes,  and  he  was  very  certain  that  this  beautiful 
girl  had  bright,  alert  eyes. 

There  had  been  a  passage  of  love-making  between  Aggie 
Logan  and  him,  conducted  entirely  by  Aggie  Logan.  She 
had  taken  him  aside  one  day,  in  the  middle  of  a  game  of  ' '  I 
spy, ' '  and  had  said  to  him  ' '  Will  you  court  me,  Johnnie  ? ' ' 

"No,  "he  had  replied. 

' '  Do  you  not  love  me  then  ? ' '  she  enquired. 

"No,"  he  said  again. 

"But  I  want  you  to  court  me,"  she  persisted. 

"I  don't  care  what  you  want,"  he  retorted.  "I  won't 
court  you  because  I  don't  want  to  court  you.  I  don't  like 
you.  You  're  too  much  of  a  girner  for  me  ! " 

"I'm  not  a  girner,"  she  protested. 

"You  are.  You  start  crying  the  minute  anything  hap- 
pens to  you  or  if  people  won't  do  what  you  want  them  to 
do.  I  wouldn  't  marry  a  girner  for  the  wide  world ! ' ' 

' '  I  won 't  girn  any  more  if  you  '11  court  me, ' '  she  promised. 

"I  daresay,"  he  replied  sceptically. 

She  considered  for  a  moment  or  two.  "Well,  if  you 
won't  court  me,"  she  said,  "I'll  let  Andy  Cairnduff  court 
me!" 

' '  He  can  have  you, ' '  said  John,  undismayed  by  the  pros- 
pect of  the  schoolmaster's  son  as  a  rival. 

She  stood  before  him  for  a  little  while,  without  speaking. 
Then  she  turned  and  walked  a  little  distance  from  him. 
She  stopped,  with  her  back  turned  towards  him,  and  he 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  29 

knew  by  the  way  her  head  was  bent,  that  she  was  thinking 
out  a  way  of  retaliating  on  him.  The  end  of  her  pinafore 
was  in  her  mouth !  .  .  .  She  turned  to  him  sharply,  letting 
the  pinafore  fall  from  her  lips,  and  pointing  at  him  with 
her  finger,  she  began  to  laugh  shrilly. 

' '  Ha,  ha,  ha ! "  she  said.     ' '  I  have  you  quarely  gunked ! ' ' 

"Gunked!"  he  exclaimed,  unable  to  see  how  he  had  been 
hoaxed. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "I  gunked  you  nicely.  You 
thought  I  wanted  you  to  court  me,  but  I  was  only  having 
you  on.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! " 

He  burst  out  laughing.  ' '  I  that  consoles  you, ' '  he  said ; 
"you're  welcome  to  it!" 

Then  she  ran  away  and  would  not  play  "I  spy"  or 
"Tig"  any  more. 

He  had  not  told  his  mother  of  that  passage  of  love  with 
Aggie  Logan.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  tell  anything  to 
his  mother.  His  instinct,  indeed,  was  not  to  tell  things  to 
her,  to  conceal  them  from  her. 

vi 

If  anyone  had  said  to  him  that  he  did  not  love  his  mother 
as  much  as  he  loved  his  Uncle  Matthew  and  his  Uncle  Wil- 
liam, he  would  have  been  very  angry.  Not  love  his  mother 
more  than  anyone  else  on  earth!  .  .  .  Only  a  blow  could 
make  a  proper  answer  to  such  a  charge.  Nevertheless  his 
mother  was  associated  in  his  mind  with  acts  of  repression, 
with  forbidding  and  restraint.  She  seemed  always  to  be 
telling  him  not  to  do  things.  When  he  wanted  to  go  to 
the  Lough  with  Willie  Logan  to  play  Eobinson  Crusoe  and 
his  Man  Friday  or  to  light  a  bonfire  in  Teeshie  McBratney's 
field  with  shavings  from  Galpin's  mill  in  the  pretence  that 
he  was  a  Red  Indian  preparing  for  a  war-dance,  it  was  his 
mother  who  said  that  he  was  not  to  do  it.  He  might  fall 
into  the  water  and  get  drowned,  she  said,  or,  he  might  fall 


30  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

into  the  fire  and  get  roasted  to  death.  As  if  he  were  not 
capable  of  controlling  a  raft  or  a  bonfire !  .  .  . 

He  felt,  too,  that  sometimes  she  punished  him  unjustly. 
When  the  Logans  and  he  had  played  Buffalo  Bill  and  the 
Red  Indians  attacking  the  defenceless  pale-face  woman,  he 
had  had  a  fierce  argument  with  Willie  Logan  about  the  part 
of  Buffalo  Bill.  Willie,  being  older,  had  claimed  the  part 
for  himself,  and,  when  denied  the  right  to  it,  had  declared 
that  neither  Aggie  nor  he  would  play  in  the  game.  Then  a 
compromise  had  been  arranged :  Willie  was  allowed  to  play 
the  part  of  Buffalo  Bill  and  to  slay  the  Red  Indian  on 
condition  that  John,  before  being  slain,  should  be  allowed 
to  scalp  the  helpless  pale-face  woman.  He  scalped  her  so 
severely,  by  tugging  tightly  at  her  long  hair,  that  she  began 
to  cry,  and  Willie,  more  conscious  of  the  fact  that  he  was 
Aggie's  brother  than  that  he  was  Buffalo  Bill,  bore  down 
upon  John  and  gave  him  his  ' '  cowardy-blow. "  They 
fought  a  fierce  and  bitter  fight,  and  in  the  end,  Willie  went 
home  with  a  bleeding  nose,  and  John  went  home  with  a 
black  eye. 

Willie  had  not  played  the  man  over  that  affair.  He  went 
to  his  mother  and  complained  of  John's  selfish  and  brutal 
behaviour,  alleging  that  he  had  suffered  terrible  punishment 
in  a  chivalrous  effort  to  protect  his  sister  from  ruffianly 
assault;  and  his  mother,  a  thin,  acidulous  woman,  whose 
voice  was  half  snarl  and  half  whine,  carried  her  son 's  com- 
plaint to  Mrs.  MacDermott. 

Mrs.  MacDermott  had  not  stopped  to  enquire  into  the 
truth  of  the  charge  against  John  beyond  asking  if  it  were 
true  that  he  had  pulled  Aggie  Logan 's  hair  and  fought  with 
Willie  Logan.  John  had  replied  "Yes,  ma!"  That  was 
sufficient  for  Mrs.  MacDermott,  that  and  the  testimony  of 
John's  discoloured  eye,  and  she  had  beaten  him  with  the 
leather  tawse  that  was  kept  hanging  from  a  nail  at  the  side 
of  the  fireplace.  ' '  That  my  son  should  do  the  like  of  that ! ' ' 
she  said  over  and  over  again  until  a  cold  fury  of  resentment 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  31 

against  her  had  formed  in  his  heart.  It  was  true  that  he 
had  pulled  Aggie's  hair  much  harder  than  he  ought  to  have 
done,  but  he  had  not  intended  to  hurt  her.  What  he  had 
done,  had  been  done,  not  out  of  malice,  but  in  the  excite- 
ment of  the  game ;  and  it  was  not  fair  to  beat  him  so  severely 
for  so  little  a  thing  as  that.  He  would  not  cry  ...  he 
would  not  give  his  mother  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  him 
cry,  although  the  lashing  he  was  receiving  was  hurting  his 
bare  pelt  very  sorely.  She  could  keep  on  saying,  ' '  That  my 
son  should  do  the  like  of  that!"  but  he  would  not  mind 
her.  .  .  . 

Then,  as  if  she  understood  his  thoughts  and  perceived 
that  he  was  unmoved  by  her  outraged  feelings,  she  had 
changed  her  complaint  against  him.  Glancing  up  at  the 
portrait  of  her  husband  which  was  hanging  over  the  fire- 
place, she  said,  "That  your  father's  son  should  do  the  like 
of  that!"  Compunction  came  to  him  then.  He,  too> 
looked  up  at  the  portrait  of  his  father,  and  suddenly  he 
wanted  to  cry.  The  pale  face,  made  more  pale  in  appear- 
ance by  the  thick,  black  beard,  and  having  the  faded  look 
which  photographs  of  the  dead  seem  always  to  have,  ap- 
peared to  him  to  be  alive  and  full  of  reproach,  and  the  big 
burning  eyes,  aflame,  they  looked,  with  the  consuming  thing 
that  took  his  life,  had  anger  in  them,  anger  against 
him!  .  .  . 

He  had  not  any  regret  for  hurting  Aggie  Logan  ...  he 
did  not  believe  that  he  had  hurt  her  any  more  severely  than 
was  necessary  for  the  purposes  of  the  game,  and  even  if  he 
had  hurt  her,  she  ought  to  have  borne  it  as  part  of  the 
pretence  ...  he  did  not  care  whether  he  had  hurt  her  or 
not,  for  she  was  a  "cry-ba"  at  all  times,  ready  to  "girn"  at 
anything  .  .  .  but  he  had  sorrow  at  the  thought  that  he 
had  done  something  of  which  his  father  might  have  disap- 
proved. Mrs.  MacDermott,  with  that  penetration  which 
is  part  of  the  nature  of  people  who  are  accustomed  to  yield 
to  stronger  personalities  had  discovered  that  she  could  win 


32  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

John  to  her  obedience  by  reminding  him  of  his  father ;  and 
she  used  her  power  without  pity.  "What  would  your 
father  think  of  you,  if  he  knew ! ' '  she  would  say. 

She  was  not  a  hard  or  a  cruel  woman  .  .  .  she  was  very 
kind  and  loved  her  son  with  a  long  clutching  love  .  .  .  but 
her  life  with  her  husband  had  contained  so  many  disturb- 
ances of  comfortable  courses,  thrilling  enough  at  the  time, 
but  terrifying  when  viewed  in  retrospect,  that  her  nature, 
inclined  to  quiet,  fixed  ways  and  to  acceptance,  with  slight 
resistance,  of  whatever  came  to  her,  made  all  the  efforts 
that  were  possible  to  it  to  keep  her  life  and  her  son's  life 
in  peace.  She  hated  change  of  any  sort,  whether  of  circum- 
stances or  of  friends,  and  she  loved  old,  familiar  things. 
The  tradition  of  the  MacDermotts,  their  life  in  one  place 
for  generations  and  the  respect  with  which  they  were 
greeted  by  their  townsmen,  gave  immense  pleasure  to  her, 
and  her  dearest  dream  was  that  John  should  continue  in 
the  place  where  his  forefathers  had  lived,  and  that  his  son 
and  his  son 's  son  should  continue  there,  too ! 

And  so  it  was  that  she  was  always  telling  John  not  to  do 
things.  She  loathed  Uncle  Matthew's  romances  and  his 
talk  of  adventures  in  foreign  parts,  and  she  insisted  that  he 
was  ' '  away  in  the  mind ' '  when  her  son  spoke  of  him  to  her. 
She  tried  to  make  the  boy  walk  inconspicuously,  to  keep, 
always,  in  the  background,  to  do  only  those  things  that 
were  generally  approved  of.  His  quick  temper,  his  haste 
with  his  fists,  his  habit  of  contradicting  even  those  who 
were  older  than  he  was,  his  unwillingness  to  admit  that  he 
was  in  the  wrong  ...  all  these  disturbed  and  frightened  her. 
They  would  lead  him  into  disputes  and  set  him  up  in 
opposition  to  other  people.  His  delight  in  the  story  of  his 
father's  encounter  with  Lord  Castlederry  troubled  her,  and 
she  tried  to  convince  her  son  that  Lord  Castlederry  was  a 
well-meaning  man,  but,  as  she  knew,  without  success.  She 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  S3 

had  delighted  in  her  husband's  great  courage  and  self- 
sufficiency,  his  sureness,  his  strong  decision  and  his  uncon- 
querable pride  and  independence  .  .  .  but  now,  in  con- 
templation, these  things  frightened  her  .  .  .  she  wondered 
sometimes  why  it  was  that  they  had  not  frightened  her  in 
his  lifetime  .  .  .  and  the  thought  that  she  might  have  to 
live  again  in  contention  and  opposition  roused  all  her 
strength  to  resist  that  fate.  She  had  lived  down  much  of 
the  dislike  that  her  husband  had  aroused.  It  was  not 
necessary  now  to  pretend  that  she  did  not  see  people,  that 
she  might  escape  from  the  mortification  of  being  stared  at, 
without  a  sign  of  recognition;  and  she  would  not  lightly 
yield  up  her  comfortable  situation.  If  only  she  could  only 
persuade  John  to  become  a  minister !  There  was  nothing  in 
that  to  frighten  her :  there  was  everything  to  make  her  feel 
content  and  proud. 

"When  she  took  John  to  Belfast,  she  made  the  holiday,  so 
eagerly  anticipated,  a  mortification  to  him.  While  they 
were  in  the  train,  she  would  tell  him  not  to  climb  on  to  the 
seat  of  the  carriage  to  look  out  of  the  window  at  the  tele- 
graph-poles flying  past  and  the  telegraph-wires  rising  and 
falling  like  birds  .  .  .  she  would  tell  him  not  to  stand  at 
the  door  in  case  it  should  fly  open  and  he  should  fall  out 
and  be  killed  .  .  .  she  would  tell  him,  when  the  train 
reached  the  terminus  in  Belfast,  to  take  tight  hold  of  her 
hand  and  not  to  budge  from  her  side  .  .  .  she  would  refuse 
to  cross  the  Lagan  in  the  steam  ferry-boat  and  insist  on 
going  round  by  tram-car  across  the  Queen's  Bridge  .  .  . 
she  would  tell  him  not  to  wander  about  in  Forster  Green's 
when  he  edged  away  from  her  to  look  at  the  coffee-mills  in 
which  the  richly-smelling  berries  were  being  roasted. 
When  she  took  him  to  Linden's  to  tea  .  .  .  Linden's  which 
made  cakes  for  the  Queen  and  had  the  Royal  Arms  over 
the  door  of  the  shop!  .  .  .  she  spoiled  the  treat  for  him  by 
refusing  to  let  him  sit  on  one  of  the  stools  at  the  counter 


34.  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

and  eat  his  "cookies"  like  a  man:  she  made  him  sit  by  her 
side  at  a  table  ...  an  ordinary  table  such  as  anyone  could 
sit  on  anywhere  ...  at  home,  even ! 

His  Uncle  William  had  taken  him  up  to  Belfast  one 
market-day,  and  that  Friday  was  made  memorable  to  him 
forever  because  his  Uncle  had  said  to  him,  ' '  Well,  boy,  what 
would  you  like  to  do  ? "  and  had  consented,  without  demur, 
to  cross  the  Lagan  in  the  ferry-boat.  Uncle  William  had 
not  clutched  at  him  all  the  time  in  fear  lest  he  should  fall 
into  the  river  and  be  drowned,  and  had  allowed  him  to 
stand  at  the  end  of  the  boat  and  watch  the  swirl  of  the 
water  against  the  ferry-steps  when  they  reached  the  Antrim 
side.  He  had  said  to  him,  too,  "I've  a  wee  bit  of  business 
to  attend  to,  boy,  that  11  not  interest  you  much.  Would  you 
like  to  stay  here  in  the  market  for  an  hour  by  yourself  while 
I  go  and  do  it  ? " 

Would  he  like  ?  .  .  . 

And  not  one  word  about  taking  great  care  of  himself  or 
of  not  doing  this  or  doing  that  ...  of  keeping  away  from 
the  horse-fair,  and  not  going  too  near  the  cattle.  Uncle 
William  trusted  him,  took  it  for  granted  that  he  was  capable 
of  looking  after  himself.  .  .  . 

"Very  well,  then,"  Uncle  William  said,  "I'll  meet  you 
here  in  an  hour 's  time.  No  later,  mind  you,  for  I  've  a  deal 
to  do  the  day!" 

And  for  a  whole  hour,  John  had  wandered  about  the 
market,  not  holding  anyone's  hand  and  free  to  go  wherever 
he  liked!  He  had  walked  through  the  old  market  where 
the  horses  were  bought  and  sold  .  .  .  had  even  stroked  a 
mare's  muzzle  while  some  men  bargained  over  it  ...  and 
then  had  crossed  the  road  to  the  new  market  where  he  smelt 
the  odour  of  flowers  and  fruit  and  listened  to  the  country- 
women chaffering  over  their  butter  and  eggs.  He  spent  a 
penny  without  direction !  .  .  .  He  bought  a  large,  rosy 
American  apple  .  .  .  without  being  asked  whether  he 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  35 

would  like  to  have  that  or  an  orange,  or  being  told  that  he 
could  not  have  an  orange,  but  must  have  an  apple  because 
an  apple  in  the  morning  was  good  for  him.  .  .  . 

When  he  told  his  mother  that  night  of  the  splendid  time 
he  had  had  by  himself,  she  said,  "You  might  have  lost 
yourself!  ..."  That  chilled  him,  and  he  did  not  tell  her 
of  the  gallant  way  in  which  he  had  rubbed  his  hand  on  a 
horse's  side.  He  knew  very  well  that  she  would  say,  "It 
might  have  kicked  you!  ..." 


vn 

It  was  she  who  was  most  particular  about  the  dyeing  of 
his  Easter  eggs  and  the  ritual  of  hanging  up  his  stocking  on 
Christmas  Eve.  She  had  wanted  to  go  on  dj^eing  eggs  for 
him  at  Easter  and  hanging  up  his  stocking  on  Christmas 
Eve,  even  when  he  was  twelve  years  of  age  and  could  not  be 
expected  to  tolerate  such  things  any  longer.  He  liked  the 
Easter  ceremonial  better,  perhaps,  than  that  of  Christmas. 
His  mother  would  bid  Uncle  Matthew  take  him  out  of  the 
town  to  the  fields  to  gather  whin-blossoms  so  that  she  could 
dye  the  eggs  to  a  pretty  brown  colour.  Tea-leaves  could 
be  used  to  dye  the  eggs  to  a  deeper  brown  than  that  of  the 
whin-blossoms,  but  there  was  not  so  much  pleasure  in  taking 
tea-leaves  from  the  caddy  as  there  was  in  plucking  whin- 
blossoms  from  the  furze-bushes.  The  Logans  bought  their 
Easter  eggs,  already  dyed,  from  old  Mrs.  Dobbs,  the  dulce- 
woman,  but  John  disliked  the  look  of  her  eggs,  apart  from 
the  fact  that  his  mother  would  not  permit  him  to  buy  them. 
Mrs.  Dobbs  used  some  artificial  dyes  which  stained  the  egg- 
shells a  horrible  purple  or  a  less  horrible  red,  and  John  had 
a  feeling  of  sickness  when  he  looked  at  them.  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dermott  said  that  if  the  eggs  were  to  crack  during  the 
process  of  boiling,  the  dye  would  penetrate  the  meat  and 
might  poison  anyone  who  ate  it ;  and  even  if  the  shells  re- 


36  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

mained  uncracked,  the  dye  would  soil  the  fingers  and  per- 
haps soil  the  clothes.     She  wondered  at  Mrs.  Logan !  .  .  . 

And  on  Easter  Monday,  she  and  Uncle  Matthew  and 
Uncle  William  would  go  to  Bryson's  field  where  there  was  a 
low  mound  covered  with  short  grass,  and  from  the  top  of 
this  mound,  he  would  trundle  his  Easter  egg  down  the  slope 
to  the  level  ground  until  the  shell  was  broken.  Then  he 
would  sit  beside  his  mother  and  uncles,  and  eat  the  hard- 
boiled  meat  of  the  egg  while  Uncle  Matthew  explained  to 
him  that  he  was  celebrating  an  ancient  Druidical  rite. 


Vlll 

But  he  loved  his  mother  very  dearly  when  she  came  to 
him  at  night  to  put  him  to  bed  and  listen  to  his  prayers. 
He  would  kneel  down  in  front  of  her,  in  the  warmth  of  the 
kitchen  so  that  he  might  not  catch  cold  in  the  unheated  bed- 
room, and  would  shut  his  eyes  very  tightly  because  God  did 
not  like  to  see  Jittle  boys  peeping  through  their  distended 
fingers  at  Him,  and  would  say  his  verse : 

I  lay  my  body  down  to  sleep  .  .  . 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep, 
And  if  I  die  before  I  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take. 

and  having  said  that,  he  would  add  a  general  prayer  for  his 
family.  "God  bless  my  Mother"  ...  he  always  said 
"Mother"  in  his  prayers,  although  he  said  "Ma"  in  or- 
dinary talk  .  .  .  "and  my  Uncle  William  and  my  Uncle 
Matthew  and  all  my  friends  and  relations,  and  make  me  a 
good  boy  for  Jesus '  sake,  Amen.  Our  Father  which  art ! 
..."  Then  he  would  scamper  up  the  stairs  to  bed,  and 
his  mother  would  hap  the  clothes  about  him  and  tell  him  to 
go  to  sleep  soon.  She  would  bend  over  him  and  kiss  him 
very  tightly,  and  he  would  put  his  arms  about  her,  too. 
' '  Son,  dear ! ' '  she  would  say. 


WHEN  John  MacDermott  was  seventeen  years  of  age  and 
entering  into  his  fourth  year  of  monitorship,  his  Uncle 
William  said  to  him,  "John,  boy,  you're  getting  on  to  be  a 
man  now,  and  it's  high  time  you  began  to  think  of  what 
you're  going  to  do  with  yourself  when  you  are  one!" 

"You're  mebbe  right,"  said  John. 

"The  next  year '11  be  your  last  one  at  the  monitoring, 
won't  it?"  Uncle  William  continued. 

John  nodded  his  head. 

"Well,  if  I  were  you  I'd  make  a  plan  of  some  sort  during 
the  next  year  or  two,  for  it  would  never  do  for  you  to  come 
to  the  years  of  discretion,  and  have  to  take  to  the  teachering 
because  you  couldn't  think  of  anything  else  to  do.  I  can 
see  well  your  heart's  not  in  that  trade." 

"It  is  not,  indeed!"  John  said  vigorously.  "It's  a 
terrible  tiring  job,  teaching  children,  and  some  of  them  are 
that  stupid  you  feel  provoked  enough  to  slap  the  hands  off 
them!  I'm  nearly  afraid  of  myself  sometimes  with  the 
stupid  ones,  for  fear  I'd  lose  my  temper  with  them  and 
hurt  them  hard.  Mr.  Cairnduff  says  no  one  should  be  a 
teacher  that  has  a  bad  temper,  and  dear  knows,  Uncle 
William,  I've  a  fearful  temper!  He's  a  quare  wise  man, 
Mr.  Cairnduff:  he  doesn't  let  any  of  his  monitors  use  the 
cane,  for  he  says  it's  an  awful  temptation  to  be  cruel,  es- 
pecially if  you're  young  and  impatient  the  way  I  am!" 

"Is  that  so  now?"  said  Uncle  William. 

"Oh,  it  is,  right  enough.  I  know  well  there's  times  when 
a  child's  provoked  me,  that  I  want  to  be  cruel  to  it  ,  .  . 

37 


38  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

and  I  'd  hate  to  be  cruel  to  any  child.  There 's  a  wee  girl  in 
my  class  now  .  .  .  Lizzie  Turley  's  her  name !  .  .  . " 

"John  Turley 's  child?" 

"Yes.  God  knows  she's  the  stupidest  child  in  the 
world!" 

"Her  da's  a  match  for  her,  then,  for  he's  the  stupidest 
man  I  've  ever  known.  That  fellow  ought  not  to  have  been 
let  have  children  !...*' 

"It's  not  her  fault,  I  know,"  John  continued,  "but  you 
forget  that  when  you  're  provoked.  I  Ve  tried  hard  to  teach 
that  child  .  .  .  vowed  to  myself  I'd  teach  her  ...  to  add 
up,  but  I'm  afraid  she's  beaten  me.  She  can  subtract  well 
enough  .  .  .  that's  the  queer  part  about  her  .  .  .  but  she 
cannot  add  up.  You'll  mebbe  not  believe  me,  Uncle  Wil- 
liam, but  that  child  can't  put  two  and  one  together  and  be 
sure  of  getting  the  right  answer.  At  first  she  couldn  't  add 
two  and  one  together  at  all.  She'd  put  down  twelve  for 
the  answer  as  likely  as  not.  But  I  worked  hard  with  her, 
and  I  got  her  to  add  up  to  two  and  six  make  eight  .  .  . 
and  there  she  stuck.  I  couldn't  get  her  past  that:  she 
couldn't  add  two  and  seven  together  and  get  nine  for  the 
answer.  But  if  you  asked  her  to  subtract  two  from  nine, 
she'd  say  "seven"  all  right!  That's  a  queer  thing,  now! 
Isn't  it?" 

' '  Aye,  it 's  queer  enough ! ' ' 

"There's  been  times  when  I've  wanted  to  hit  that  wee 
girl  .  .  .  hit  her  with  my  shut  fists  .  .  .  and  I  don 't  like  to 
feel  that  way  about  a  child  that 's  not  all  there  ...  or  any 
child!  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  fit  to  be  a  teacher,  Uncle  Wil- 
liam. You  have  to  be  very  good  and  patient  .  .  .  and  it's 
no  use  pretending  you  haven't.  Mr.  Cairnduff  says  it's 
more  important  for  a  teacher  to  be  good  than  it  is  for  a 
minister,  and  he 's  right,  too.  He  says  a  child  should  never 
be  slapped  by  the  teacher  that's  offended  with  it,  but  by 
another  teacher  that  knows  nothing  about  the  bother.  He 
doesn  't  use  the  cane  much  himself,  but  there 's  some  teachers 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  39 

likes  using  it.  Miss  Gebbie  does  .  .  .  she  carries  a  big 
bamboo  about  with  her,  and  gives  you  a  good  hard  welt 
across  the  hand  with  it,  if  you  annoy  her.  I  wouldn't  like 
to  be  in  that  woman's  grip,  I  can  tell  you.  Some  women 
are  fearful  hard,  Uncle  William ! ' ' 

' '  Worse  nor  men,  some  of  them, ' '  Uncle  "William  agreed. 

"Mr.  Cairnduff  told  me  one  time  of  a  teacher  he  knew 
that  got  to  like  the  cane  so  much  that  he  used  to  try  and  trip 
the  children  into  making  mistakes  so's  he  could  slap  them 
for  it.  Isn  't  it  fearful,  that  ? ' ' 

"Terrible,  John!" 

"I'd  be  ashamed  to  death  if  I  got  that  way.  Oh,  I 
couldn't  go  on  with  the  teaching,  Uncle  William.  I 
wouldn't  be  near  fit  for  it." 

"Well,  never  mind,  John.  There's  one  thing,  the  extra 
schooling  you've  had  has  done  you  no  harm,  and  I  daresay 
it's  done  you  a  lot  of  good.  But  you'll  have  to  think  of 
something  to  do !  .  .  . " 

"Yes,  I  will!" 

"Do  you  never  think  of  anything?  Is  there  any  par- 
ticular thing  you  'd  like  to  do  ?  " 

' '  There 's  a  whole  lot  of  things  I  've  fancied  I  'd  like  to  be, 
but  after  a  wee  while  I  always  change  my  mind.  The  first 
time  I  went  to  Belfast,  I  thought  it  would  be  lovely  to  be  a 
tram-driver  'til  I  saw  a  navvy  tearing  up  the  street  .  .  . 
and  then  I  thought  a  navvy  had  the  best  job  in  the  world. 
You  know,  Uncle  William,  it  takes  me  a  long  while  to  find 
out  what  it  is  I  want,  but  when  I  do  find  it  out,  I  take  to  it 
queer  and  quick.  I'll  mebbe  go  footering  about  the  world 
like  a  lost  thing,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  I  '11  know  what  I 
want  to  do  ...  and  I'll  just  do  it!" 

"Hmrnm!"  said  Uncle  William. 

"It  sounds  queer  and  foolish,  doesn't  it?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  John.  Many's  a  thing  sounds  silly, 
but  isn't." 

"It's  true,  anyway.     I've  noticed  things  like  that  about 


40  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

myself.  It's  ...  it's  like  a  man  getting  converted.  One 
minute  he's  a  guilty,  hell-deserving  sinner,  the  way  John 
Button  says  he  was,  footering  about  the  world,  drinking 
and  guzzling  and  leading  a  rotten  life  .  .  .  and  then  all  of 
a  sudden,  he's  hauled  up  and  made  to  give  his  testimony 
and  do  God's  will  for  the  rest  of  his  life!  I  daresay  I'll 
drift  from  one  thing  to  another  .  .  .  and  then  I'll  know, 
just  like  a  flash  of  lightning  .  .  .  and  I'll  go  and  do  it!" 

"That's  a  dangerous  kind  of  a  doctrine,"  said  Uncle 
William.  "It's  easier  to  get  into  the  way  of  drifting  nor 
it  is  to  get  out  of  it  again.  And  you're  a  young  lad  to  be 
thinking  strange  thoughts  like  that ! ' ' 

' '  I  'm  seventeen, ' '  John  replied.     ' '  That 's  not  young ! ' ' 

"It's  not  oul'  anyway.  Anybody 'd  think  to  hear  you, 
you  had  the  years  of  Methuselah.  I  suppose,  now,  you 
never  thought  of  coming  into  the  shop  ? ' ' 

"I  did  think  of  it  one  time,  but  you  wouldn't  let 
me!  .  .  ." 

"That  was  when  you  wanted  to  help  me.  But  did  you 
never  think  of  it  for  your  own  sake?  You  see,  John, 
you're  the  last  of  us,  and  this  shop  has  been  in  our  family 
for  a  long  while  ...  it 's  a  good  trade,  too,  and  you  '11  have 
no  fear  of  hardship  as  long  as  you  look  after  it,  although 
the  big  firms  in  Belfast  are  opening  branches  here.  The 
MacDermotts  can  hold  their  heads  up  against  any  big  firm 
in  the  world,  I  'm  thinking  ...  in  this  place,  anyway.  Did 
you  never  feel  you  'd  like  to  come  into  the  shop  ? ' ' 

John  glanced  about  the  shop,  at  the  assistants  who  were 
serving  customers  with  tea  and  groceries.  .  .  . 

"No,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  "I  don't  think  I'd  like 
it!" 

Uncle  William  considered  for  a  few  moments.  Then  he 
said,  "No,  I  thought  you  wouldn't  care  for  it.  Your  da 
felt  that  way  too.  The  shop  wasn't  big  enough  for  him. 
All  the  same,  there  has  to  be  shops,  and  there  has  to  be 
people  to  look  after  that ! ' ' 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  41 

"Oh,  I  know  that  right  enough,  Uncle  William.  I'm 
not  saying  anything  against  them.  They're  all  right  for 
them  that  likes  them !  .  .  . " 

He  paused  for  a  while,  and  his  Uncle  waited  for  him  to 
proceed.  "Sometimes,"  he  said  at  last,  "I'm  near  in  the 
mind  to  go  and  be  a  soldier !  ..." 

"For  dear  sake!"  said  Uncle  William  impatiently. 

"Or  a  sailor.  I  went  down  to  the  Post  Office  once  and 
got  a  bill  about  the  Navy !  ..." 

"Well,  I  would  think  you  were  demented  mad  to  go  and 
do  the  like  of  that,"  said  Uncle  William.  "You  might  as 
well  be  a  peeler!" 

ii 

His  mind  turned  now  very  frequently  to  the  considera- 
tion of  work  other  than  that  of  teaching.  He  made  a  men- 
tal catalogue  of  the  things  that  were  immediately  possible 
to  him :  teaching,  the  ministry  of  the  Presbyterian  Church, 
the  shop  .  .  .  and  ruled  them  all  out  of  his  list.  The 
thought  of  soldiering  or  of  going  to  sea  lingered  in  his  mind 
for  a  long  time  .  .  .  because  he  associated  soldiering  and 
sailoring  with  travel  in  strange  places  .  .  .  but  he  aban- 
doned that  thought  when  he  balanced  the  tradition  of  his 
class  against  the  Army  and  Navy.  All  the  men  of  his 
acquaintance  who  had  joined  the  Army  or  the  Navy  had 
done  so,  either  because  they  were  in  disgrace  or  because  they 
were  unhappy  at  home.  It  was  generally  considered  that 
in  joining  either  of  the  Services,  they  had  brought  shame 
upon  their  families,  less,  perhaps  in  the  case  of  the  Navy 
than  in  the  case  of  the  Army.  In  any  event,  his  Uncle 
William's  statement  that  a  MacDcrmott  could  not  endure 
to  be  ordered  about  by  any  one  settled  his  mind  for  him  on 
that  subject.  He  would  have  to  get  his  adventures  in  other 
ways.  He  might  emigrate  to  America.  He  had  a  cousin 
in  New  York  and  one  in  Chicago.  He  might  go  to  Canada 
or  Australia  or  South  Africa  .  .  .  digging  for  gold  or 


42  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

diamonds!  There  was  nothing  in  Ireland  that  attracted 
him  ...  all  the  desirable  things  were  in  distant  places. 
Farming  in  Canada  or  Australia  had  a  romantic  attraction 
that  was  not  to  be  found  in  farming  in  Ireland.  He  had 
seen  farmers  in  Ireland  .  .  .  and  he  did  not  wish  to  be 
like  them ! 

But,  no  matter  how  much  he  considered  the  question,  he 
came  no  nearer  to  a  solution  of  it. 

He  would  go  out  to  the  fields  that  lay  on  the  shores  of  the 
Lough,  going  one  day  to  this  side,  and  another  day  to  that, 
and  lie  down  in  the  sunshine  and  dream  of  a  brilliant 
career.  He  might  go  into  parliament  and  become  a  great 
statesman,  like  that  man,  Lord  Salisbury,  who  had  come  to 
Belfast  once  during  the  Home  Rule  agitation.  Or  he  might 
turn  Nationalist  and  divert  himself  by  roaring  in  the  House 
of  Commons  against  the  English !  He  wished  that  he  could 
write  poetry  ...  if  he  could  write  poetry,  he  might  be- 
come famous.  There  was  an  old  exercise  book  at  home, 
full  of  poems  that  he  had  made  up  when  he  was  much 
younger,  about  Ireland  and  the  Pope  and  Love  and  Bally- 
ards  .  .  .  but  they  were  poor  things,  he  knew,  although 
Mr.  Cairnduff,  to  whom  he  had  shown  them,  had  said  that, 
considering  the  age  John  was  when  he  wrote  them,  they 
might  have  been  a  great  deal  worse.  Mr.  Cairnduff  had 
given  generous  praise  to  a  long  poem  on  the  election  of  a 
Nationalist  for  the  city  of  Derry,  beginning  with  this  wail : 

Oh,  Derry,  Derry,  what  have  you  done? 
Sold  your  freedom  to  Home  Rule's  son! 

but  neither  Unele  William  nor  Uncle  Matthew  had  had 
much  to  say  for  it.  Uncle  William  said  that  his  father 
would  not  have  liked  to  think  of  his  son  writing  a  poem  full 
of  sentiments  of  that  sort,  and  Uncle  Matthew  went  up- 
stairs to  the  attic  and  brought  down  a  copy  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet  and  presented  it  to  him.  But  Mrs.  MacDermott 
was  pleased  in  a  queer  way.  She  hoped  he  was  not  going 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  43 

to  take  up  politics,  but  she  was  glad  that  he  was  not  a  Home 
Ruler ! 

Sometimes,  when  he  had  been  much  younger  than  he  now 
was  .  .  .  John  always  thought  of  himself  as  a  man  of  great 
age  ...  he  had  resolved  that  he  would  become  a  writer; 
but  although  he  began  many  stories  and  solemn  books  .  .  . 
there  was  one  called,  The  Errors  of  Rome  in  which  the 
Papists  were  to  be  finally  and  conclusively  exposed  .  .  . 
none  of  them  were  ever  finished.  Then  had  come  a  phase 
of  preaching.  His  mother  read  the  Christian  Herald 
every  week,  and  John  would  get  a  table  cloth,  and  wrap  it 
round  himself  to  represent  a  surplice  .  .  .  for  the  Church 
of  Ireland  was  more  decorative  than  the  Presbyterian 
Church  .  .  .  and  deliver  the  sermons  of  Dr.  Talmage  and 
Mr.  Spurgeon  in  a  loud  sing-song  voice  that  greatly  de- 
lighted Mrs.  MacDermott.  That,  too,  had  passed,  very 
swiftly  indeed,  because  of  the  alarming  discovery  that  he 
was  an  atheist!  He  would  never  forget  the  sensation  he 
had  created  in  school  when  he  had  suddenly  turned  to  Willie 
Logan  and  said,  "Willie,  I  don't  believe  there's  a  God  at 
all.  It 'sail  a  catch!  ..." 

Willie,  partly  out  of  fright,  but  chiefly  because  of  his 
incorrigible  tendency  to  "clash,"  immediately  reported  him 
to  Miss  Gebbie,  who  had  been  a  teacher  even  then  ...  it 
seemed  to  him  sometimes  that  Miss  Gebbie  had  always  been 
a  teacher  and  would  never  cease  to  be  one  .  .  .  and  she 
had  converted  him  to  a  belief  in  God's  existence  at  the  point 
of  her  bamboo.  .  .  . 

Then  came  a  time  of  mere  dreaming  of  a  future  in  which 
some  beautiful  girl  would  capture  all  his  mind,  and  heart 
and  service.  He  would  rescue  her  from  a  dire  situation 
...  he  would  invent  some  wonderful  thing  that  would 
bring  fame  and  fortune  to  him  .  .  .  and  he  would  offer  all 
his  fame  and  fortune  to  her.  His  visions  of  this  girl,  con- 
stantly recurring,  prevented  him  from  falling  in  love  with 
any  girl  in  Ballyards.  When  he  contrasted  the  girl  of  his 


44  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

dream  with  the  girls  he  saw  about  him,  he  could  not  under- 
stand how  anyone  could  possibly  love  a  Ballyards  girl. 
Aggie  Logan !  .  .  . 

He  would  come  away  from  the  fields,  pleased  with  his 
dreams,  but  still  as  far  from  a  solution  of  his  problem  as 
ever. 

iii 

One  evening,  his  Uncle  William  came  into  the  kitchen 
where  John  was  reading  John  Halifax,  Gentleman  to  his 
mother. 

"I  ought  to  go  to  Belfast  the  morrow,"  he  said,  ''but 
Saturday's  an  awkward  day  for  me.  I  was  wondering 
whether  to  send  John  instead.  He's  nothing  to  do  on 
Saturdays,  and  it  would  be  a  great  help  to  me ! " 

John  closed  the  book.  "Of  course,  I'll  go,  Uncle  Wil- 
liam ! ' '  he  said. 

Mrs.  MacDermott  coldly  regarded  them  both.  "You 
know  rightly, ' '  she  said,  ' '  that  I  'm  as  busy  on  Saturday  as 
you  are,  William.  How  can  he  go  up  to  Belfast  when  I 
can 't  go  with  him  ? ' ' 

' '  I  never  said  nothing  about  you  going  with  him, ' '  Uncle 
William  retorted.  "He's  well  able  to  go  by  himself!" 

"Go  by  himself!"  Mrs.  MacDermott  almost  shouted  the 
words  at  her  brother-in-law.  "A  lad  that  never  was  out 
of  the  town  by  his  lone  in  his  life  before ! " 

"He'll  have  to  go  by  his  lone  some  day,  won't  he?  And 
he's  a  big  lump  of  a  lad  now,  and  well  able  to  look  after 
himself!" 

' '  He  '11  not  stir  an  inch  from  the  door  without  me, ' '  Mrs. 
MacDermott  declared  in  a  determined  voice.  "Think 
shame  to  yourself,  William,  to  be  putting  such  thoughts 
into  a  lad 's  head  .  .  .  suggesting  that  he  should  be  sent  out 
in  the  world  by  himself  at  his  age !  .  .  ." 

Uncle  William  shifted  uneasily  in  his  seat.  "I'm  not 
suggesting  that  he  should  be  sent  out  into  the  world,"  he 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  45 

said.  "  I'm  only  suggesting  that  he  should  be  sent  to  Bel- 
fast for  the  day!  .  .  ." 

' '  And  what  sort  of  a  place  is  Belfast  on  a  Saturday  after- 
noon with  a  lot  of  drunk  footballers  flying  about?  He 
will  not  go,  William.  You  can  send  Matthew!  ..." 

Uncle  William  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "You 
know  rightly,  Matthew's  no  good  for  a  job  of  this  sort !" 

"Well,  then,  you'll  have  to  go  yourself.  I'll  keep  an 
eye  to  the  shop,  f orby  my  own  work !  .  .  . " 

John  got  up  and  put  John  Halifax,  Gentleman  on  the 
window-ledge. 

' '  You  needn  't  bother  yourself,  ma, ' '  he  said.  "  I  'm  going 
to  Belfast  the  morrow.  What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do, 
Uncle  William?" 

Mrs.  MacDermott  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  she 
got  up  and  hurried  out  of  the  kitchen.  They  could  hear 
her  mounting  the  stairs,  and  then  they  heard  the  sound  of 
her  bedroom  door  being  violently  slammed. 

"Women  are  queer,  John,"  said  Uncle  William,  "but  the 
queerest  women  of  all  are  the  women  that  are  mothers. 
Anybody 'd  think  I  was  proposing  to  send  you  to  the  bad 
place,  and  dear  knows,  Belfast 's  not  that ! ' ' 

"What's  the  job  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Come  into  the  shop  and  I'll  tell  you!" 

John  followed  his  Uncle  into  the  shop  and  they  sat  down 
together  in  the  little  Counting  House. 

"There's  really  nothing  that  a  postcard  couldn't  do," 
Uncle  William  said.  "That  was  the  excuse.  I've  been 
thinking  about  you,  John,  and  I  thought  it  was  a  terrible 
pity  you  should  never  get  out  and  about  by  yourself  a  bit 
.  .  .  out  of  Ballyards,  I  mean  .  .  .  to  look  round  you.  It's 
no  good  to  a  lad  to  be  always  running  about  with  his  ma!" 

"You're  a  terrible  schemer,  Uncle  William,"  said  John. 

"Ah,  g'  long  with  you,"  his  Uncle  answered.  "Here, 
pay  need  to  me  now,  while  I  tell  you.  This  is  what  I  want 
you  to  do!  .  .  ." 


46  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

He  showed  a  business  letter  to  John  and  invited  him  to 
read  it.  Then  he  explained  the  nature  of  the  small  commis- 
sion he  wished  him  to  execute. 

"It'll  not  ta^e  you  long,"  he  said,  "and  then  you  can 
look  about  yourself  in  Belfast.  You'll  want  a  few  coppers 
in  your  pocket ! ' '  He  put  a  coin  into  John 's  hand  and 
then  closed  the  lad's  fingers  over  it.  "It's  great  value  to 
go  down  the  quays  and  have  a  look  at  the  ships, ' '  he  went 
on,  "and  mebbe  you  could  get  a  look  over  the  shipyard! 
.  .  .  And  perhaps  when  you're  knocking  about  Belfast, 
you'll  see  something  you'd  like  to  do  !" 

iv 

In  this  way,  his  Saturday  trips  to  Belfast  began.  He 
found  them  much  less  exhilarating  then  he  had  imagined 
they  would  be.  He  inspected  the  City  Hall  in  the  com- 
pany of  a  beadle  and  was  informed,  with  great  preciseness, 
of  the  cost  of  the  building  and  of  the  price  paid  to  each  ar- 
tist for  the  portraits  of  the  Lord  Mayors  which  were  sus- 
pended from  the  walls  of  the  Council  Chamber.  The  beadle 
seemed  to  think  that  the  portraits  represented  a  waste  of 
ratepayers'  money,  and  he  considered  that  if  the  Corpora- 
tion had  given  a  contract  to  one  artist  for  all  the  pictures,  a 
great  reduction  in  price  could  have  been  obtained.  .  .  . 
The  Museum  and  the  Free  Library  depressed  him,  precisely 
in  the  way  in  which  Museums  and  Free  Libraries  always 
depress  people ;  but  he  found  pleasure  in  the  Botanic  Gar- 
dens and  the  Ormeau  Park.  He  devised  an  excellent 
scheme  of  walking,  which  enabled  him  to  go  through  the 
Botanic  Gardens,  then,  by  side  streets,  to  the  Lagan,  where 
a  ferryman  rowed  him  across  to  the  opposite  bank  and 
landed  him  in  the  Ormeau  Park.  He  would  walk  briskly 
through  the  Park,  and  then,  when  he  had  emerged  from  it, 
would  cross  the  Albert  Bridge,  hurry  along  the  Sand  Quay, 
and  stand  at  the  Queen's  Bridge  to  watch  the  crowds  of 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  47 

workmen  hurrying  home  from  the  shipyards.  He  never 
tired  of  watching  the  "Islandmen,"  grimy  from  their 
labour,  as  they  passed  over  the  bridge  in  a  thick,  dusky 
stream  to  their  homes.  Thousands  and  thousands  of  men 
and  boys  seemed  to  make  an  endless  procession  of  ship- 
builders, designers  and  rivetters  and  heater-boys.  But  it 
never  occurred  to  him  that  there  was  something  romantic 
in  the  enterprise  and  labours  of  these  men,  that  out  of  their 
energies,  great  ships  grew  and  far  lands  were  brought  near 
to  each  other.  He  liked  to  witness  the  dispersal  of  the 
shipyard's  energies,  but  he  did  not  think  of  the  miracle 
which  their  assembled  energies  performed  every  day.  By 
this  narrow,  shallow  river  Lagan,  a  great  company  of  men 
and  boys  and  women  met  daily  to  make  the  means  whereby 
races  reached  out  to  each  other ;  and  their  ships  sailed  the 
seas  of  the  world,  carrying  merchandise  from  one  land  to 
another,  binding  the  East  to  the  West  and  the  South  to  the 
North,  and  making  chains  of  friendship  and  kindliness  be- 
tween diverse  peoples.  It  was  an  adventure  to  sail  in  a 
ship,  in  John's  mind,  but  he  did  not  know,  had  never 
thought  or  been  told,  that  it  is  also  an  adventure  to  build  a 
ship.  The  pleasure  which  he  found  in  watching  the 
"Islandmen"  crossing  the  Queen's  Bridge  was  not  related 
to  their  work :  it  was  found  in  the  spectacle  of  a  great  crowd. 
Any  crowd  passing  over  the  Bridge  would  have  pleased 
John  equally  well.  .  .  . 

But  the  crowd  of  "Islandmen"  was  soon  dispersed;  and 
John  found  that  there  was  very  little  to  do  in  Belfast.  He 
did  not  care  for  football  matches,  he  had  no  wish  to  enter 
the  City  Hall  again,  he  could  not  walk  through  the  Botanic 
Gardens  and  the  Ormeau  Park  all  day  long,  and  he  cer- 
tainly did  not  wish  to  visit  the  Museum  or  the  Free  Library 
again.  He  became  tired  of  walking  aimlessly  about  the 
streets.  There  was  a  wet  Saturday  when,  as  he  stood  under 
the  shelter  of  an  awning  in  Royal  Avenue,  he  resolved  that 
he  would  return  to  Ballyards  by  an  early  train.  "It's  an 


48  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

awful  town,  this,  on  a  wet  day ! "  he  said  to  himself,  unaware 
that  any  town  in  which' a  man  is  a  stranger  is  unpleasant  on 
a  wet  day  .  .  .  and  sometimes  on  a  fine  day.  ' '  Somehow, ' ' 
he  went  on,  ' '  there  seems  to  be  more  to  do  in  Ballyards  on  a 
wet  day  than  there  is  in  Belfast  on  a  wet  day!"  A  sense 
of  loneliness  descended  upon  him.  as  he  gazed  at  the  grey, 
dribbling  skies  and  the  damp  pavements.  The  trams  were 
full  of  moist,  huddled  men  and  women ;  the  foot-passengers 
hurried  homewards,  their  heads  bent  against  the  wind  and 
rain ;  the  bleak-looking  newspaper  boys,  barefooted,  pinched, 
hungry  and  cold,  stood  shivering  in  doorways,  with  wet, 
sticky  papers  under  their  arms;  and  wherever  he  looked, 
John  saw  only  unfriendliness,  haste  and  discomfort.  There 
would  not  be  a  train  to  Ballyards  until  late  in  the  afternoon, 
and  as  he  stood  there,  growing  less  cheerful  each  moment, 
he  wondered  how  he  could  occupy  the  time  of  waiting. 
The  wind  blew  down  the  street,  sending  the  rain  scudding 
in  front  of  it,  and  chilling  him,  and,  half  unconsciously,  he 
hurried  across  the  road  to  take  shelter  in  a  side  street  where, 
it  seemed  to  him,  he  would  be  less  exposed.  He  walked 
along  the  street,  keeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  houses,  and 
presently  he  found  himself  before  the  old  market  of  Smith- 
field. 

"  Amn't  I  the  fool,"  he  said  to  himself,  "not  to  have  come 
here  before  ? ' ' 

For  here,  indeed,  was  entertainment  for  any  man  or 
woman  or  child.  In  this  ancient  market  for  the  sale  of  dis- 
carded things,  a  lonely  person  could  pass  away  the  dull 
hours  very  agreeably.  The  auctioneers,  wheedling  and 
joking  and  bullying,  could  be  trusted  to  amuse  any  reason- 
able man  for  a  while,  and  when  their  entertainment  was 
exhausted  there  were  the  stalls  to  visit  and  explore.  He 
stood  to  listen  to  a  loud-voiced  man  who  was  selling  second- 
hand clothes,  and  then,  turning  away,  found  himself  stand- 
ing before  a  bookstall.  Piles  of  books,  of  all  sizes  and 
shapes  and  colours,  lay  on  a  long  shutter  that  rested  on 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  49 

trestles;  and  in  the  shop,  behind  the  trestles,  were  great 
stacks  of  books  reaching  to  the  ceiling.  He  fingered  the 
books  with  the  affection  with  which  he  had  seen  his  Uncle 
.Matthew  finger  those  in  the  attic  at  home.  Some  of  them 
had  the  dreary,  dull  look  observable  in  books  that  have  long 
passed  out  of  favour  and  have  lain  disregarded  in  some  dark 
and  dusty  corner;  and  some,  though  they  were  old,  looked 
bright  and  pleasant  as  if  they  were  confident  that  the  affec- 
tion which  had  been  theirs  for  years  would  be  continued  to 
them  by  new  owners.  He  picked  up  old  volumes  and  spent 
much  time  in  contemplating  the  inscriptions  inside  them 
.  .  .  fading  inscriptions  in  a  thin,  genteel  handwriting  that 
had  the  careful  look  of  writing  done  by  people  who  were 
anxious  that  the  record  should  not  offend  a  schoolmaster's 
eye  .  .  .  and  as  he  read  these  inscriptions,  a  queer  dejec- 
tion settled  on  him.  These  books,  dusty  and  disregarded, 
he  told  himself,  represented  love  and  thought  that  had 
perished.  Doubt  and  damp  pessimism  clutched  hold  of 
him.  At  the  end  of  every  brave  adventure  was  Smithfield 
Market.  He  put  down  a  book  which  contained  an  inscrip- 
tion to  "Charles  Dunwoody  from  his  affectionate  Mother," 
and  looked  about  him.  Everywhere,  secondhand,  rejected 
things  were  for  sale:  clothes,  furniture,  books,  pictures. 
.  .  .  The  market  was  a  mortuary  of  ambition  and  hope,  the 
burial  ground  of  little  enterprises,  confidently  begun  and 
miserably  ended.  Here  were  the  signs  of  disruption  and 
dispersal,  of  things  attempted  but  not  achieved,  of  misfor- 
tune and  failure,  of  things  used  and  abandoned  for  more 
coveted  things.  John  had  imagined  himself  performing 
great  feats  to  win  the  love  and  favour  of  some  beautiful 
woman  .  .  .  but  now  he  saw  his  adventure  in  love  ending 
in  a  loud-voiced  auctioneer  mouthing  jokes  over  a  ruined 
home.  Behind  these  piles  of  books  and  pictures  and 
clothes  and  furniture,  one  might  see  young  couples  bravely 
setting  out  on  their  little  ships  of  love  to  seek  their  fortunes, 
light-heartedly  facing  perils  and  dangers  because  of  the 


50  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

high  hope  in  their  hearts  .  .  .  and  coming  to  wreck  on  a 
rough  coast  where  their  small  cargoes  were  seized  by  credi- 
tors and  brought  to  this  place  for  sale,  and  they  were  left 
bare  and  hurt  and  discouraged.  .  .  . 

' '  Oh,  well ! ' '  said  John,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  pick- 
ing up  a  newer  book. 

That  would  not  happen  to  him.  If  he  failed  in  one  en- 
terprise he  would  start  off  on  another.  If  he  made  a  for- 
tune and  lost  it,  he  would  make  another  one.  If  the  things 
he  built  were  to  be  destroyed  .  .  .  well,  he  would  start 
building  again.  .  .  . 

But  the  mood  of  pessimism  still  held  him  and  he  could 
not  bear  to  look  at  the  books  any  longer.  An  unhappy  ghost 
hid  behind  the  covers  of  each  one  of  them.  He  hurried  out 
of  the  market  into  the  street.  The  rain  had  ceased  to  fall, 
but  the  streets  were  wet  and  dirty,  and  the  air  struck  at 
him  coldly.  He  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  saw  that  he  could 
not  now  catch  the  train  by  which  he  had  intended  to  return 
to  Ballyards. 

"I'll  go  and  get  my  tea  somewhere,"  he  said,  and  then, 
"I  don't  think  I'll  come  to  Belfast  again.  I'm  tired  of 
the  town ! ' ' 

He  turned  into  Royal  Avenue  and  passed  across  Castle 
Junction  into  Donegall  Place  where  there  was  a  shop  in 
which  new  books  were  sold.  The  shop  was  closed  now,  but 
he  was  able  to  see  books  with  handsome  covers,  in  the  win- 
dow and  he  stayed  for  a  time  reading  the  titles  of  them. 
There  was  a  bustle  of  people  about  him,  of  newspaper  boys 
and  flower  girls,  bedraggled  and  cheerless-looking,  and  of 
young  men  and  women  tempted  to  the  Saturday  evening 
parade  in  the  chief  street  of  the  city  in  spite  of  the  rain. 
The  sound  of  voices  in  argument  and  barter  and  bright 
talk  mingled  with  laughter  and  the  noise  of  the  tram- 
cars  and  carts  clattering  over  the  stony  street.  John  liked 
the  sound  of  Belfast  on  a  Saturday  night,  the  pleased  sound 
of  released  people  intent  on  enjoyment  and  with  the  kiiowl- 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  51 

edge  that  ou  the  morrow  there  would  still  be  freedom  from 
labour,  and  as  he  stood  in  front  of  the  bookshop,  half  intent 
on  the  books  in  the  window  and  half  intent  on  the  crowd 
that  moved  about  him,  the  gloom  which  had  seized  hold  of 
him  in  Smithfield  began  to  relax  its  grip:  and  when  two 
girls,  jostled  against  him  by  the  disordered  movement  of 
the  crowd  on  the  pavement,  smiled  at  him  in  apology,  he 
smiled  back  at  them. 

He  thrust  himself  through  the  crowd,  breaking  into  a 
group  of  excited  newspaper  boys  who  were  thrusting  copies 
of  the  Evening  Telegraph  and  Ireland's  Saturday  Night 
at  possible  purchasers,  and  walked  towards  the  City  Hall, 
but,  changing  his  mind  unaccountably,  he  turned  down 
Castle  Lane  and  presently  found  himself  by  the  Theatre 
Koyal.  He  had  never  been  to  a  theatre  in  his  life,  but 
Uncle  Matthew  and  Uncle  William,  when  they  were  young 
men,  used  frequently  to  come  to  Belfast  from  Ballyards  to 
see  a  play,  and  they  had  told  him  of  the  great  pleasure  they 
had  had  at  the  "old  Royal." 

"I've  a  good  mind  to  go  there  to-night,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, as  he  crossed  the  street  to  examine  the  playbills  which 
were  posted  on  the  walls  of  the  theatre. 

Mr.  F.  R.  Benson's  Shakespearean  Company,  he  read  on 
the  bill  by  the  stage-door,  would  perform  The  Merchant  of 
Venice  that  evening.  The  Company  would  remain  in  Bel- 
fast during  the  following  week  and  would  produce  other 
plays  by  Shakespeare. 

' '  I  will  go, ' '  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  '11  go  somewhere  now 
and  have  my  tea,  and  then  I'll  hurry  back !" 

He  remembered  that  he  had  seen  a  volume  of  Shake- 
speare's plays  in  the  bookshop  in  Donegall  Place  and  that 
Uncle  Matthew  had  each  of  the  plays  in  a  separate  volume 
in  the  attic  at  home.  He  had  read  The  Merchant  of  Venice 
a  long  time  ago,  but  had  only  a  vague  recollection  of  it. 
In  one  of  the  school-books,  Portia's  speech  on  mercy  was 
printed,  and  he  could  say  that  piece  off  by  heart.  The 


52  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

Jew  had  snarled  at  Portia  when  she  had  said  ' '  Then  must 
the  Jew  be  merciful ! "  "  On  what  compulsion  must  I  ? "  he 
had  demanded,  and  she  had  replied,  ' '  The  quality  of  mercy 
is  not  strained.  ..."  The  school-book  did  not  print 
Portia's  statement  that  the  Jew  must  be  merciful  or  the 
Jew's  snarling  demand,  "On  what  compulsion  must  I?"; 
but  Mr.  Cairnduff  had  explained  the  story  of  the  play  to 
the  class  and  had  told  them  of  these  two  speeches,  and 
John,  interested  by  the  story,  had  gone  home  and  searched 
through  the  attic  for  the  play,  and  there  had  read  it 
through. 

His  mind  went  back  to  the  bookshop.  "It  must  be  fine 
to  work  in  a  place  like  that,  with  all  the  books  you  can  want 
to  read  all  round  you, ' '  he  said  to  himself  while  he  hurried 
through  Corn  Market  on  his  way  to  a  restaurant.  He 
stopped  for  a  moment  or  two,  as  an  idea  suddenly  presented 
itself  to  him.  ' ' I  know  what  I '11  do, ' '  he  said  aloud.  "  I'll 
start  a  bookshop  myself.  New  books  .  .  .  not  old  ones. 
That  sort  of  life  would  suit  me  fine ! ' ' 


He  ate  his  meal  in  great  haste,  and  then  hurried  back  to 
the  theatre  where  a  queue  of  people  had  already  formed 
outside  the  entrance  to  the  pit.  Soon  after  he  joined  the 
queue,  the  doors  were  opened,  and  in  a  little  while  he  found 
himself  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  second  row.  He  had 
chosen  this  seat  so  that  he  might  be  able  to  hurry  out  of  the 
theatre  quickly,  without  disturbing  anyone,  if  he  should 
have  to  leave  before  the  play  was  ended  to  catch  the  last 
train  to  Ballyards. 

A  boy  about  his  own  age  was  sitting  next  to  him,  and  this 
boy  asked  John  to  let  him  have  a  look  at  his  programme. 

"Did  you  ever  see  this  piece  before?"  John  said  to  him, 
as  he  passed  the  programme  to  him. 

"I  did  not,"  he  replied.     "I'm  not  much  of  a  one  for 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  53 

plays.  I  generally  go  to  the  'Lhambra  on  a  Saturday,  but 
somehow  I  didn  't  go  there  the  night ! ' ' 

' '  That 's  a  terrible  place,  that  'Lhambra, ' '  said  John. 

"What's  terrible  about  it?"  his  neighbour  replied. 

"I  don't  know.  I  was  never  there.  This  is  the  first 
time  I've  ever  been  in  a  theatre.  But  I've  heard  fearful 
things  about  that  place,  about  women  coming  out  and  danc- 
ing with  hardly  any  clothes  on,  and  then  kicking  up  their 
legs  and  all.  I  have  an  uncle  went  there  once,  and  when 
the  woman  began  kicking  up  her  legs  and  showing  off  her 
clothes,  he  got  up  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  stage  'til 
she  was  done,  he  was  that  disgusted." 

John  remembered  how  shocked  Uncle  William  had  been 
when  he  told  that  story  of  himself. 

"Your  uncle  must  be  very  easy  shocked,"  said  the  boy. 
"I  can  look  at  women  kicking  up  their  legs,  and  I  don't 
think  nothing  of  it  at  all.  I  like  a  good  song  and  dance 
myself.  I  don't  like  plays  much.  Gimme  a  woman  that's 
nice-looking  and  can  sing  and  dance  a  bit,  and  I  wouldn't 
ask  you  for  nothing  nicer.  Is  there  any  dancin'  in  this  bit, 
do  you  know  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  John.  "I've  never  seen  the 
piece  before,  but  I've  read  it.  I  don't  think  there's  any 
dancing  in  it ! " 

"And  no  comic  songs?  ..." 

"Sure,  you'll  see  for  yourself  in  a  wee  minute!" 

John's  neighbour  considered.  "I  wonder  would  they 
give  me  my  money  back  if  I  was  to  go  to  the  pay-box  and 
let  on  I  was  sick  ! ' ' 

"They'd  never  do  that,"  said  John.  "They'd  know 
rightly  you  weren  't  sick  by  the  look  of  you ! ' ' 

The  boy  returned  the  programme  to  John.  "Well,  I 
wish  they  'd  hurry  up  and  begin, ' '  he  murmured. 

The  members  of  the  orchestra  came  through  a  door  be- 
neath the  stage  and  took  their  places,  and  the  sound  of 
fiddles  being  tuned  was  heard  for  a  while.  Then  the  leader 


54  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

of  the  orchestra  came  to  his  place,  and  after  a  pause,  the 
music  began. 

' '  A  fiddle 's  great  value, ' '  John 's  neighbour  whispered  to 
him.  "I?m  a  great  hand  at  the  Jew's  harp  myself!  ..." 

The  music  ceased,  the  lights  were  lowered  in  the  theatre 
and  the  footlights  were  raised,  throwing  a  great  soft  yellow 
glow  on  the  picture  of  the  Lakes  of  Killarney  which  deco- 
rated the  drop-curtain.  Then  the  curtain  was  rolled  up, 
and  the  performance  began. 

He  had  been  interested  by  the  play  when  he  read  it,  but 
now  he  was  enthralled  by  it.  He  wished  that  the  boy  sit- 
ting next  to  him  would  not  keep  on  asking  for  the  pro- 
gramme every  time  a  fresh  character  appeared  on  the  stage 
and  would  refrain  from  making  comments  on  the  play  while 
it  was  being  performed.  "Them  people  wore  quare 
clothes  in  them  days ! "  he  had  whispered  to  John  soon  after 
the  play  began,  and  when  Shy  lock  made  his  first  entrance, 
he  said,  "Ah,  for  Jase'  sake,  look  at  the  oul'  Sheeny!" 

"Ssh!"  said  John.     "Don't  talk!  .  .  ." 

"Sure,  why?  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  shut  up,"  said  John. 

He  did  not  wish  to  talk  during  the  intervals  between  the 
acts.  He  wished  to  sit  still  in  his  seat  and  perform  the  play 
over  again  in  his  mind.  He  tried  to  remember  Bassanio's 
description  of  Portia : 

In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left, 

And  she  is  fair,  and  fairer  than  that  word, 

Of  wondrous  virtues.  .  .  . 

He  could  not  think  of  the  words  that  came  after  that 
.  .  .  except  one  sentence : 

.  .  .  And  her  sunny  locks 
Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece. 

He  repeated  this  sentence  to  himself  many  times,  as  if  he 
were  tasting  each  word  with  his  tongue  and  with  his  mind, 
and  once  he  said  it  aloud  in  a  low  voice. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  55 

"Eh?"  said  his  neighbour. 

"I  was  just  reciting  a  piece  from  the  play,"  he  explained. 

"What  were  you  reciting?" 

"Do  you  remember  that  piece:  and  her  sunny  locks  Hang 
on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece  f" 

"No!" 

"In  the  first  act?  When  the  young  fellow,  Bassanio.  was 
telling  Antonio  about  his  girl  in  Belmont?" 

His  neighbour  turned  to  him  eagerly.  "I  wonder  did 
they  just  put  that  bit  in  about  Belmont,"  he  said. 
"There's  a  place  near  Belfast  called  Belmont  .  .  .  just 
beyond  the  Hollywood  Arches  there !  Do  you  know  it  ? " 
John  shook  his  head.  "I  wouldn't  be  surprised  but  they 
just  put  that  bit  in  to  make  it  look  more  like  the  thing. 
What  was  the  piece  you  were  reciting  ? ' '  John  repeated  it 
to  him  again.  "What's  the  sense  of  that?"  the  boy  ex- 
claimed. 

"Oh,  don't  you  see?  It's  .  .  .  it's.  .  .  ."  He  did  not 
know  how  to  explain  the  speech.  "It's  poetry,"  he  said 
lamely. 

"Oh"  said  the  boy.  "Portry.  I  see  now.  Ah,  well,  I 
suppose  they  have  to  fill  up  the  piece  some  way !  Do  you 
think  that  woman,  what's  her  name  again?  ..." 

"Portia?" 

"Aye.  D'you  think  she  did  live  at  Belmont?  Some  of 
them  stories  is  true,  you  know,  and  there  was  quare  things 
happened  in  the  oul'  ancient  days  in  this  neighbourhood,  I 
can  tell  you.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  now  !  ..." 

But  before  he  could  say  any  more,  the  lights  were  lowered 
again,  and  there  was  a  hushing  sound,  and  then  the  play 
proceeded. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  grand?"  John  said  to  his  neighbour  when 
the  trial  scene  was  over. 

But  his  neighbour  remained  unmoved.  "D'you  mean  to 
tell  me,"  he  said,  "that  man  didn't  know  his  wife  when  he 
saw  her  in  the  Coort  ? ' ' 


56  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Whatman?" 

"That  fellow  what-you-may-call-him ?  The  man  that 
was  married  on  the  girl  with  the  red  dress  on  her !  .  .  . " 

"Bassanio?" 

"Aye.  D'you  mean  to  tell  me  that  fellow  didn't  know 
her  again,  and  him  only  just  after  leaving  her!  ..." 

John  tried  to  explain.  "It's  a  play,"  he  said.  "He's 
not  supposed  to  recognize  her !  ..." 

"Och,  what's  the  good  of  supposing  a  thing  that  couldn't 
be?"  said  John's  neighbour.  "Any  man  with  half  an 
eye  in  his  head  could  have  seen  who  she  was.  I  wish 
I'd  gone  to  the  'Lhambra.  This  is  a  damn  silly  play, 
this!" 

John  was  horrified.  "Silly,"  he  said.  "It's  by  Shake- 
speare ! ' ' 

"I  don't  care  who  it's  by,"  was  the  reply.  "It's  damn 
silly  to  let  on  a  man  doesn  't  know  his  own  wife  when  he  sees 
her.  I  suppose  that's  portry!"  he  sneered. 

John  did  not  answer,  and  his  neighbour  went  on.  ' '  Well, 
if  it  is  portry  .  .  .  God  help  it,  that 's  all ! " 

But  John  did  not  care  whether  Bassanio  had  recognized 
Portia  in  the  court  scene  or  not.  He  left  the  theatre  in  an 
exalted  mood  in  which  he  had  little  thought  for  the  realities. 
Next  week  he  told  himself,  he  would  visit  the  Royal  again. 
He  would  see  two  plays  on  the  following  Saturday,  one  in 
the  afternoon  and  one  in  the  evening.  The  bills  for  the 
following  week's  programme  were  already  pasted  on  the 
walls  of  the  theatre  when  he  came  out,  and  he  risked  the 
loss  of  his  train  by  stopping  to  read  one  of  them.  Romeo 
and  Juliet  was  to  be  performed  in  the  afternoon,  and  Julius 
Ccesar  in  the  evening. 

He  hurried  down  Ann  Street  and  across  the  Queen's 
Bridge,  and  reached  the  railway  station  just  in  time  to 
catch  his  train;  and  all  the  way  across  the  bridge  and  all 
the  way  home  in  the  train,  one  sentence  passed  continually 
through  his  mind : 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  57 

And  her  sunny  locks 
Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece. 

vi 

While  he  ate  his  supper,  he  spoke  to  his  mother  and  his 
uncles  of  his  intention  to  open  a  bookshop. 

''I'm  going  to  start  a  bookshop,"  he  said.  "I  made  up 
my  mind  in  Belfast  to-day !" 

' '  A  what  ? ' '  Mrs.  MacDermott  demanded. 

"A  bookshop,  ma.  I'll  have  every  book  you  can  think 
of  in  it!  .  .  ." 

"In  the  name  of  God,"  his  mother  exclaimed,  "who  do 
you  think  buys  books  in  this  place?" 

"Plenty  of  people,  ma.     Mr.  McCaughan!  ..." 

"Mr.  McCaughan  never  buys  a  book  from  one  year's  end 
to  another,"  she  interrupted.  "And  if  he  did,  you  can't 
support  a  shop  on  one  man's  custom.  The  people  of  this 
town  doesn't  waste  their  time  on  reading:  they  do  their 
work!" 

John  turned  angrily  on  her.  "It's  not  a  waste  of  time 
to  read  books,  ma.  Is  it,  Uncle  Matthew  ? ' ' 

' '  You  may  well  ask  him, ' '  she  said  before  Uncle  Matthew 
could  answer. 

' '  What  do  you  think,  Uncle  William  ? ' '  John  went  on. 

Uncle  William  thought  for  a  few  moments.  "I  don't 
know  what  to  think,"  he  said.  "It's  not  a  trade  I  know 
much  about,  John,  but  I  doubt  whether  there's  a  living  in 
it  in  Ballyards." 

"There's  no  living  in  it,"  Mrs.  MacDermott  exclaimed 
passionately,  "and  if  there  was,  you  shouldn't  earn  your 
living  by  it ! " 

John  gazed  at  her  in  astonishment.  Her  eyes  were  shin- 
ing, not  with  tears,  though  tears  were  not  far  from  them, 
but  with  resentment  and  anger. 

"Why,  ma?  "he  said. 


58  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Because  books  are  the  ruin  of  people's  minds,"  she  re- 
plied. "Your  da  was  always  reading  books,  wild  books  that 
disturbed  him.  He  was  never  done  reading  The  Rights  of 
Man.  And  look  at  your  Uncle  Matthew !  .  .  . " 

She  stopped  suddenly  as  if  she  realised  that  she  had  said 
too  much.  Uncle  Matthew  did  not  speak.  He  looked  at 
her  mournfully,  and  then  he  turned  away. 

"I  don't  want  to  say  one  word  to  hurt  anyone's  feel- 
ings," she  continued  in  a  lower  tone,  "but  my  life's  been 
made  miserable  by  books,  and  I  don't  want  to  see  my  son 
made  miserable,  too.  And  you  know  well,  Matthew,"  she 
added,  turning  to  her  brother-in-law,  ' '  that  all  your  reading 
has  done  you  no  good,  but  a  great  deal  of  harm.  And 
what's  the  use  of  books,  anyway?  Will  they  help  a  man  to 
make  a  better  life  for  himself  ? ' ' 

Uncle  Matthew  turned  to  her  quickly.  ' '  They  will,  they 
will,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  trembled  with  emotion. 
"People  can  take  your  work  from  you  and  make  little  of 
you  in  the  street  because  you  did  what  your  heart  told  you 
to  do,  but  you  '11  get  your  comfort  in  a  book,  so  you  will.  I 
know  what  you  're  hinting  at,  Hannah,  but  I  'm  not  ashamed 
of  what  I  did  for  the  oul'  Queen,  and  I'd  do  it  again,  gaol 
or  no  gaol,  if  I  was  to  be  hanged  for  it  the  day  after ! ' ' 

He  turned  to  John. 

"I  don't  know  what  sort  of  a  living  you'll  make  out  of 
selling  books,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't  care  either,  but  if  you 
do  start  a  shop  to  sell  them,  let  me  tell  you  this,  you'll 
never  prosper  in  it  if  it  doesn  't  hurt  you  sore  to  part  with 
a  book,  for  books  is  like  nothing  else  on  God's  earth.  You 
have  to  love  them  .  .  .  you  have  to  love  them !  .  .  . " 

"You're  daft,"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott. 

"Mebbe  I  am,"  Uncle  Matthew  replied  wearily.  "But 
that's  the  way  I  feel,  and  no  man  can  help  the  way  he 
feels!" 

He  sat  down  at  the  table,  resting  his  head  in  his  hands, 
and  gazed  hungrily  at  his  nephew. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  59 

' '  You  can  help  putting  notions  into  a  person 's  head, ' '  said 
Mrs.  MacDermott.  "John  might  as  well  try  to  write  books 
as  try  to  sell  them  in  this  town ! ' ' 

"  Write  books ! ' '  John  exclaimed. 

"Aye,  write  them!  ..." 

But  Uncle  Matthew  would  not  let  her  finish  her  sentence. 
"And  why  shouldn't  he  write  books  if  he  has  a  mind  to  it?" 
he  demanded.  "Wasn't  he  always  the  wee  lad  for  scrib- 
bling bits  of  stories  in  penny  exercise  books?  ..." 

"He  was  .  .  .  'til  I  beat  him  for  it,"  she  replied.  "Why 
can't  you  settle  down  here  in  the  shop  with  your  Uncle 
William  ? ' '  she  said  to  her  son.  "  It 's  a  comfortable,  quiet 
sort  of  a  life,  and  it's  sure  and  steady,  and  when  we're  all 
gone,  it  '11  be  yours  for  yourself.  Won 't  it,  William  ? ' ' 

' '  Oh,  aye ! ' '  said  Uncle  William.  ' '  Everything  we  have  '11 
be  John's  right  enough,  but  I  doubt  he's  not  fond  of  the 
shop!  .  .  ." 

' '  What 's  wrong  with  the  shop  ?  It 's  as  good  as  any  in  the 
town ! ' '  She  coaxed  John  with  her  voice.  ' '  You  can  marry 
some  nice,  respectable  girl  and  bring  her  here,"  she  said, 
"and  I'll  gladly  give  place  to  her  when  she  comes!"  She 
rocked  herself  gently  to  and  fro  in  the  rocking-chair.  "  I  'd 
like  well  to  have  the  nursing  of  your  children  in  the  house 
that  you  yourself  were  born  in  !  .  .  . " 

"Och,  ma,  I'm  not  in  the  way  of  marrying!  ..." 

"You'll  marry  some  time,  won't  you?  And  there's 
plenty  would  be  glad  to  have  you.  Aggie  Logan,  though  I 
can 't  bear  the  sight  of  her,  would  give  the  two  eyes  out  of 
her  head  for  you.  Of  course  you  '11  marry,  and  I  'd  be  thank- 
ful glad  to  think  of  your  son  being  born  in  this  house.  You 
were  born  in  it,  and  your  da,  too,  and  his  da,  and  his  da 's  da. 
Four  generations  of  you  in  one  house  to  be  pleased  and 
proud  of,  and  I  pray  to  God  he  '11  let  me  live  to  see  the  fifth 
generation  of  the  MacDermotts  born  here,  too.  I'm  a  great 
woman  for  clinging  to  my  home,  and  I  love  to  think  of  the 
generations  coming  one  after  the  other  in  the  same  house 


60  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

that  the  family's  always  lived  in.  How  many  people  in 
this  town  can  say  they  've  always  lived  in  the  one  house  like 
the  MacDermotts  ? " 

"Not  very  many,"  Uncle  William  proudly  replied. 

"No,  indeed  there's  not.  I  tell  you,  John,  son,  the  Mac- 
Dermotts are  someone  in  this  town,  as  grand  in  their  way 
and  as  proud  as  Lord  Castlederry  himself.  That's  some- 
thing to  live  up  to,  isn  't  it  ?  The  good  name  of  your  fam- 
ily !  But  if  you  go  tramping  the  world  for  adventures  and 
romances,  the  way  your  Uncle  Matthew  would  have  you  do, 
you  '11  lose  it  all,  and  there  '11  be  strangers  in  the  house  that 
your  family's  lived  in  all  these  generations.  And  mebbe 
you'll  come  here,  when  you're  an  ouP  man  and  we're  all 
dead  and  buried,  and  no  one  in  the  place '11  have  any  mind 
of  you  at  all,  and  you  '11  be  lonelier  here  nor  anywhere  else. 
Oh,  it  would  be  terrible  to  be  treated  like  a  stranger  in  your 
own  town !  And  if  you  did  start  a  bookshop  and  it  failed 
on  you,  and  you  lost  all  your  money,  wouldn't  it  be  worse 
disgrace  than  any  not  to  be  able  to  pay  your  debts  in  a  place 
where  everyone  knows  you  ...  to  be  made  a  bankrupt 
mebbe?" 

' '  Ah,  but,  ma,  the  world  would  never  move  at  all  if  every- 
body stopped  in  the  one  place ! ' '  John  said. 

' '  The  world  '11  move  well  enough, ' '  she  answered.  ' '  God 
moves  it,  not  you. ' ' 

John  got  up  from  the  table  and  went  and  sat  on  a  low 
stool  by  the  fire.  "I  don't  know  so  much,"  he  said.  "I 
read  in  a  book  one  time !  .  .  . " 

"  In  a  book ! ' '  Mrs.  MacDermott  sneered. 

"Aye,  ma,  in  a  book!"  John  stoutly  answered.  "After 
all,  you  know  the  Bible's  a  book!"  Mrs.  MacDermott  had 
not  got  a  retort  to  that  statement,  and  John,  aware  that  he 
had  scored  a  point,  hurriedly  proceeded,  "I  was  reading 
one  time  that  all  the  work  in  the  world  was  started  by  men 
that  wrote  books.  There  never  was  any  change  or  progress 
'til  someone  started  to  think  and  write !  .  . " 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  61 

Mrs.  MacDermott  recovered  her  wits.  ' '  Were  they  happy 
and  contented  men  ? ' '  she  demanded. 

"I  don't  know,  ma,"  John  replied.  "The  book  didn't 
say  that.  I  suppose  not,  or  they  wouldn't  have  wanted  to 
make  any  alterations ! ' ' 

' '  Let  them  that  wants  to  make  changes,  make  them, ' '  said 
Mrs.  MacDermott.  "There's  no  need  for  you  to  go  about 
altering  the  world  when  you  can  stay  at  home  here  happy 
and  content ! ' ' 

Uncle  Matthew  rose  from  the  table  and  came  towards  Mrs. 
MacDermott.  "What  does  it  matter  whether  you're  happy 
and  contented  or  not,  so  long  as  things  are  happening  to 
you  ? "  he  exclaimed. 

Mrs.  MacDermott  burst  into  bitter  laughter.  ' '  You  have 
little  wit,"  she  said,  "to  be  talking  that  daft  way.  Eh, 
William?"  she  added,  turning  to  her  other  brother-in-law. 
"What  do  you  think  about  it?" 

Uncle  William  had  lit  his  pipe,  and  was  sitting  in  a  lis- 
tening attitude,  slowly  puffing  smoke.  "I'm  wondering," 
he  said,  "whether  it's  more  fun  to  be  writing  about  things 
nor  it  is  to  be  doing  things ! ' ' 

John  turned  to  him  and  tapped  him  on  the  knee.  "I've 
thought  of  that,  Uncle  William,"  he  said,  "and  I  tell  you 
what !  I  '11  go  and  do  something,  and  then  I  '11  write  a  book 
about  it!" 

"What '11  you  do?"  Mrs.  MacDermott  asked. 

"Something,"  said  John.     "I  can  easily  do  something!" 

"And  what  about  the  bookshop?"  said  Uncle  Matthew. 

"Och,  that  was  only  a  notion  that  came  into  my  head," 
John  answered.  ' '  I  won 't  bother  myself  selling  books :  I  '11 
write  them  instead!"  He  glanced  about  the  kitchen. 
"I've  a  good  mind  to  start  writing  something  now!"  he 
said. 

His  mother  sprang  to  her  feet.  "You'll  do  no  such  thing 
at  this  hour,"  she  said.  "It's  nearly  Sunday  morning. 
Would  you  begin  your  career  by  desecrating  God 's  Day ! ' ' 


62  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

' '  If  you  start  doing  things, ' '  said  Uncle  William  reverting 
to  John's  declaration  of  work,  "you'll  mebbe  have  no  time 
to  write  about  them ! ' ' 

"Oh,  I'll  have  the  time  right  enough.  I'll  make  the 
time,"  John  said. 

Uncle  William  got  up  and  walked  towards  the  staircase. 

"Where  are  you  going,  William?"  Mrs.  MacDermott 
asked. 

"  To  my  bed, ' '  said  Uncle  William. 

vii 

Suddenly  the  itch  to  write  came  to  John,  and  he  began  to 
rummage  among  the  papers  and  books  on  the  shelves  for 
writing-paper. 

' '  What  are  you  looking  for  ? ' '  his  mother  enquired. 

"Paper  to  write  on,"  he  said. 

' '  You  '11  not  write  one  word  the  night !  .  .  . " 

"Ah,  quit,  ma!"  he  said.  "I  must  put  down  an  idea 
that 's  come  in  my  head.  I  'd  mebbe  forget  it  in  the  morn- 
ing!" 

' '  The  greatest  writers  in  the  world  have  sat  up  all  night, 
writing  out  their  thoughts, ' '  Uncle  Matthew  murmured. 

John  did  not  pay  any  heed  to  his  mother's  scowls  and 
remonstrances.  He  found  sheets  of  writing-paper  and 
placed  them  neatly  on  the  table,  together  with  a  pen  and 
ink.  He  looked  at  the  materials  critically.  There  was 
paper,  there  was  ink  and  there  was  a  pen  with  a  new  nib  in 
it,  and  blotting  paper!  .  .  . 

He  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  table  and  sat  down  in  front 
of  the  writing  paper.  He  contemplated  it  for  a  long  time 
while  Mrs.  MacDermott  put  away  the  remnants  of  his  sup- 
per, and  his  Uncle  Matthew  sat  by  the  fire  watching  him. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for,  John?"  his  Uncle  Matthew 
asked. 

' '  Inspiration, ' '  John  replied. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  63 

He  sat  still,  scarcely  moving  even  for  ease  in  his  chair, 
staring  at  the  white  paper  until  it  began  to  dance  in  front 
of  his  eyes,  but  he  did  not  begin  to  write  on  it. 

"Are  you  still  waiting  for  inspiration,  John?"  his  Uncle 
asked. 

' '  Aye, ' '  he  answered. 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  getting  any,"  Mrs.  MacDermott 
said. 

He  got  up  and  put  the  writing  materials  away.  "I'll 
wait  'til  the  morning,"  he  replied. 


JOHN  wrote  his  first  story  during  the  following  week,  and 
when  he  had  completed  it,  he  made  a  copy  of  it  on  large 
sheets  of  foolscap  in  a  shapely  hand,  and  sewed  the  pages 
together  with  green  thread.  Uncle  Matthew  had  purchased 
brass  fasteners  to  bind  the  pages  together,  but  Uncle  Wil- 
liam said  that  a  man  might  easily  tear  his  fingers  with  ' '  them 
things"  and  contract  blood-poisoning. 

"And  that  would  give  him  a  scunner  against  your  story, 
mebbe ! "  he  added. 

John  accepted  Uncle  William 's  advice,  not  so  much  in  the 
interests  of  humanity,  as  because  he  liked  the  look  of  the 
green  thread.  He  had  read  the  story  to  his  Uncles,  after 
the  shop  was  closed.  They  had  drawn  their  chairs  up  to  the 
fire,  in  which  sods  of  turf  and  coal  were  burning,  and  the 
agreeable  odour  of  the  turf  soothed  their  senses  while  they 
listened  to  John's  sharp  voice.  Mrs.  MacDermott  would 
not  join  the  circle  before  the  fire.  She  declared  that  she 
had  too  much  work  to  do  to  waste  her  time  on  trash,  and  she 
wondered  that  her  brothers-in-law  could  find  nothing  better 
to  do  than  to  encourage  a  headstrong  lad  in  a  foolish  busi- 
ness. She  went  about  her  work  with  much  bustle  and  clat- 
ter, which,  however,  diminished  considerably  as  John  be- 
gan to  read  the  story,  and  ended  altogether  soon  afterwards. 

"D'you  like  it,  Uncle  William?"  John  said,  when  he 
had  read  the  story  to  them. 

"Aye,"  said  Uncle  William. 

"I'm  glad,"  John  answered.  "And  you,  do  you  like  it, 
Uncle  Matthew?" 

64 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  65 

"I  like  it  queer  and  well,"  Uncle  Matthew  murmured, 
"only !  .  .  ."  He  hesitated  as  if  he  were  reluctant  to  make 
any  adverse  comment  on  the  story. 

"Only  what?"  John  demanded  with  some  impatience. 
He  had  asked  for  the  opinions  of  his  uncles,  indeed,  but  it 
had  not  occurred  to  him  that  they  would  not  think  as  highly 
of  the  story  as  he  thought  of  it  himself. 

' '  Well  .  .  .  there 's  no  love  in  it ! "  Uncle  Matthew  went 
on. 

"Love!" 

"Aye,"  Uncle  Matthew  said.  "There's  no  mention  of  a 
woman  in  it  from  start  to  finish.  I  think  there  ought  to  be 
a  woman  in  it ! " 

Mrs.  MacDermott,  who  had  been  silent  now  for  some  time, 
made  a  noise  with  a  dish  on  the  table.  "Och,  sure,  what 
does  he  know  about  love?"  she  exclaimed  angrily.  "A 
child  that's  not  long  left  his  mother's  arms  would  know  as 
much.  Mebbe,  now  you've  read  your  oul'  story,  John,  the 
whole  of  yous  will  sit  up  to  the  table  and  take  your  tea!" 

John,  disregarding  his  mother,  sat  back  in  his  chair  and 
contemplated  his  Uncle  Matthew. 

"I  wonder  now,  are  you  right?"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  am,"  Uncle  Matthew  replied.  "The  best  stories  in 
the  world  have  women  in  them,  and  love-making !  I  never 
could  take  any  interest  in  Robinson  Crusoe  because  he 
hadn't  got  a  girl  on  that  island  with  him,  and  I  thought  to 
myself  many's  a  time,  it  was  a  queer  mistake  not  to  make 
Friday  a  woman.  He  could  have  fallen  in  love  with  her 
then!" 

Uncle  William  said  up  sharply.  "Aye,  and  had  a  wheen 
of  black  babies!"  he  said.  "Man,  dear,  Matthew,  think 
what  you  're  saying !  What  sort  of  romance  would  there  be 
in  the  like  of  that?  I  never  read  much,  as  you  know,  but 
I  always  had  a  great  fancy  for  Robinson  Crusoe.  The  way 
that  man  turned  to  and  did  things  for  himself  ...  I  tell 
you  my  heart  warmed  to  him.  /  like  your  story,  John, 


66  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

women  or  no  women.  Sure,  love  isn't  the  only  thing  that 
men  make !  .  .  . " 

"It's  the  most  important,"  said  Uncle  Matthew. 

"And  why  shouldn't  a  story  be  written  about  any  other 
thing  nor  a  lot  of  love  ? ' '  Uncle  William  continued,  ignoring 
the  interruption.  "I  daresay  you'll  get  a  mint  of  money 
for  that  story,  John.  I  've  heard  tell  that  some  of  these  writ- 
ers gets  big  pay  for  their  stories.  Pounds  and  pounds ! ' ' 

John  crinkled  his  manuscript  in  his  hand  and  regarded  it 
with  a  modest  look.  ' '  I  don 't  suppose  I  '11  get  much  for  the 
first  one, ' '  he  said.  ' '  In  fact,  if  they  '11  print  it,  I  '11  be  will- 
ing to  let  them  have  it  for  nothing  .  .  .  just  for  the  satis- 
faction!" 

"That  would  be  a  foolish  thing  to  do,"  Uncle  William 
retorted.  "Sure,  if  it's  worth  printing,  it's  worth  paying 
for.  That 's  the  way  I  look  at  it,  anyhow ! ' ' 

"I  daresay  I'll  make  more,  -when  I  know  the  way  of  it 
better!"  John  answered.  "What  paper  will  I  send  it  to, 
do  you  think  ? ' ' 

' '  Send  it  to  the  best  one, ' '  said  Uncle  William. 

Mrs.  MacDermott  took  a  plate  of  toast  from  the  fender 
where  it  had  been  put  to  keep  warm.  ' '  Send  it  to  the  one 
that  pays  the  most,"  she  suggested. 

' '  I  thought  you  weren  't  listening,  ma ! ' '  John  exclaimed, 
laughing  at  her. 

"A  body  can't  help  hearing  when  people  are  talking  at 
the  top  of  their  voices,"  she  said  tartly.  "Come  on,  for 
dear  sake,  and  have  your  teas,  the  whole  of  yous ! ' ' 

ii 

It  was  Uncle  William  who  advised  John  to  send  the  story 
to  Blackwood's  Magazine.  He  said  that  in  his  young  days, 
people  said  Blackwood's  Magazine  was  the  best  magazine  in 
the  world.  Uncle  Matthew  had  demurred  to  this.  "I'm 
not  saying  it 's  not  a  good  one, ' '  he  said,  ' '  but  it 's  terribly 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  67 

bitter  against  Ireland.  The  man  that  writes  that  magazine 
must  have  a  bitter,  blasting  tongue  in  his  head!" 

"Never  mind  what  it  says  about  Ireland,"  Uncle  William 
retorted.  "Sure,  they're  only  against  the  Papishes,  any- 
way! .  .  ." 

"The  Papishes  are  as  good  as  the  Protestants,"  Uncle 
Matthew  exclaimed. 

"I  daresay  they  are,"  Uncle  William  admitted,  "but  I'm 
only  saying  that  Blackwood's  Magazine  is  against  them;  it's 
not  against  us;  and  I  don't  see  why  John  shouldn't  send 
his  story  to  it.  He 's  a  Protestant ! ' ' 

"  If  I  wrote  a  story, ' '  Uncle  Matthew  went  on,  "  I  wouldn  't 
send  it  to  any  paper  that  made  little  of  my  country,  Protes- 
tant or  Papish,  no  matter  how  good  a  paper  it  was  nor  how 
much  it  paid  me  for  my  story.  Ireland  is  as  good  as  Eng- 
land any  day!  ..." 

"  It 's  better, ' '  said  Uncle  William  complacently.  * '  Sure, 
God  Himself  knows  the  English  would  be  on  the  dung-heap 
if  it  wasn't  for  us  and  the  Scotchmen.  But  that's  no  rea- 
son why  John  shouldn't  send  his  story  to  Blackwood's  Mag- 
azine. In  one  way,  it's  a  good  reason  why  he  should  send 
it  there,  for  sure,  if  he  does  nothing  else,  he'll  improve  the 
tone  of  the  thing.  You  do  what  I  tell  you,  John !  .  .  . " 

And  so,  accepting  his  Uncle  William's  advice,  John  sent 
the  manuscript  of  his  story  to  the  editor  of  Blackwood's 
Magazine;  and  each  morning,  after  he  had  done  so,  he  eag- 
erly awaited  the  advent  of  the  postman.  But  the  postman, 
more  often  than  not,  went  past  their  door.  When  he  did  de- 
liver a  letter  to  them,  it  was  usually  a  trading  letter  for 
Uncle  William. 

' '  Them  people  get  a  queer  lot  of  stories  to  read, ' '  Uncle 
William  said  to  console  his  nephew,  disappointed  because 
he  had  not  received  a  letter  of  acceptance  from  the  editor 
by  Saturday  morning,  four  days  after  he  had  posted  the 
manuscript.  ' '  It  '11  mebbe  take  them  a  week  or  two  to  reach 
yours!  ..." 


68  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"They  could  have  sent  a  postcard  to  say  they'd  got  it  all 
right,"  John  replied  ruefully.  "That's  the  civil  thing 
to  do,  anyway ! ' ' 

He  remembered  that  the  Benson  Shakespearean  Company 
was  still  in  Belfast  and  that  Romeo  and  Juliet  was  to  be 
performed  in  the  afternoon,  and  Julius  Ccesar  in  the  eve- 
ning; and  he  went  up  to  the  city  by  an  earlier  train  than 
usual  so  that  he  might  be  certain  of  getting  to  the  theatre 
in  time  to  secure  an  end  seat  near  the  front  of  the  pit.  He 
had  proposed  to  his  Uncle  Matthew  that  he  should  go  to 
Belfast,  too,  to  see  the  plays,  but  Uncle  Matthew  shook  his 
head  and  murmured  that  he  was  not  feeling  well.  He  had 
been  listless  lately,  they  had  noticed,  and  Uncle  "William, 
regarding  him  one  afternoon  as  he  stood  at  the  door  of  the 
shop,  had  turned  to  John  and  said  that  he  would  be  glad 
when  the  summer  weather  came  in  again  so  that  Uncle 
Matthew  could  go  down  to  the  shore  and  lie  in  the  sun. 

"He's  not  a  robust  man,  your  Uncle  Matthew!"  he  said. 
' '  I  don 't  think  he  tholes  the  winter  well ! ' ' 

' '  Och,  he 's  mebbe  only  a  wee  bit  out  of  sorts, ' '  John  an- 
swered. ' '  I  wish  he  'd  come  to  Belfast  with  me !  .  .  . " 

"He'll  never  go  next  or  near  that  place  again,"  Uncle 
William  replied.  "He's  never  been  there  since  that  af- 
fair! .  .  ." 

' '  You  'd  wonder  at  a  man  letting  a  thing  of  that  sort  affect 
his  mind  the  way  Uncle  Matthew  let  it  affect  his,"  John 
murmured. 

"When  a  man  believes  in  a  thing  as  deeply  as  he  believed 
in  the  oul'  Queen,"  said  Uncle  William,  "it's  a  terrible 
shock  to  him  to  find  out  that  other  people  doesn't  believe  in 
it  half  as  much  as  he  does  ...  or  mebbe  doesn't  believe  in 
it  at  all!" 

"I  suppose  you're  right,"  said  John. 

"I  am,"  said  Uncle  William. 

John  was  the  first  person  to  reach  the  door  of  the  pit  that 
afternoon.  The  morning  had  been  rough  and  blusterous, 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  69 

and  although  the  streets  were  dry,  the  cold  wind  blowing 
down  from  the  hills  made  people  reluctant  to  stand  outside 
a  theatre  door.  John,  who  was  hardy  and  indifferent  to 
cold,  stood  inside  the  shelter  of  the  door  and  read  the  copy 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet  which  he  had  borrowed  from  his  Uncle 
Matthew;  and  while  he  read  the  play  he  remembered  his 
uncle's  criticism  of  the  story  he  had  written  for  Blackwood's 
Magazine:  that  it  ought  to  have  had  a  woman  in  it!  This 
play  was  full  of  love.  Romeo,  sighing  and  groaning  because 
his  lady  will  not  look  kindly  upon  him,  runs  from  his  friends 
who  "jest  at  scars  that  never  felt  a  wound"  .  .  .  and  finds 
Juliet !  In  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Bassanio  and  Portia, 
Lorenzo  and  Jessica,  Gratiano  and  Nerissa  had  all  made 
love.  Even  young  Gobbo,  in  a  coarse,  philandering  way, 
had  made  love,  too !  In  all  the  books  he  had  read,  women 
were  prominent.  Queer  and  distressing  things  happened 
to  the  heroes;  they  were  constantly  in  trouble  and  under 
suspicion  of  wrong-doing;  poverty  and  persecution  were 
common  to  them;  frequently,  they  were  misunderstood; 
but  in  the  end,  they  had  their  consolations  and  their  rights 
and  rewards.  Love  was  the  great  predominating  element  in 
all  these  stories,  the  support  and  inspiration  and  reward  of 
the  troubled  and  tortured  hero;  and  Woman  was  the  sym- 
bol of  victory,  of  achievement.  At  the  end  of  every  jour- 
ney, at  the  finish  of  every  fight,  there  was  a  Woman.  Uncle 
Matthew  had  spoken  wisely,  John  thought,  when  he  said 
that  you  cannot  leave  women  out  of  your  schemes  and  plans. 
John  had  not  thought  of  leaving  women  out  of  his  schemes 
and  plans.  In  all  his  romantic  imaginings,  a  woman  of 
superb  beauty  had  figured  in  a  dim  way ;  but  the  woman  had 
been  a  dream  woman  only,  bearing  no  resemblance  what- 
ever to  the  visible  women  about  him.  He  had  so  much  re- 
gard for  this  woman  of  his  imagined  adventures  .  .  .  she 
changed  her  looks  as  frequently  as  he  changed  the  scene  of 
his  romances  .  .  .  that  he  had  no  regard  left  for  the  women 
of  his  acquaintance.  He  nodded  to  the  girls  he  knew  when 


70  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

he  met  them  in  the  street,  but  he  had  never  felt  any  desire 
to  "go  up  the  road"  with  one  of  them.  Willie  Logan,  as 
John  knew,  was  "coortin'  hard"  and  laying  up  trouble  for 
himself  by  his  diverse  affections ;  and  Aggie  Logan,  forget- 
ful, perhaps,  of  the  rebuff  that  John  had  given  to  her  child- 
ish offers  of  love,  had  lately  taken  to  hanging  about  the 
street  when  John  was  due  to  pass  along  it.  She  would  pre- 
tend not  to  see  him  until  he  was  close  to  her.  Then  she 
would  start  and  giggle  and  say,  "Oh,  John,  is  that  you? 
You're  a  terrible  stranger  these  days!  ..."  Once  while 
he  was  listening  to  her  as  she  made  some  such  remark  as  that, 
Lady  Castlederry  drove  by  in  her  carriage,  and  his  eyes 
wandered  from  the  sallow,  giggling  girl  in  front  of  him  to 
the  beautiful  woman  in  the  carriage;  and  Aggie  suffered 
severely  by  the  comparison.  And  yet  Aggie  had  a  quicker 
and  more  intelligent  look  than  Lady  Castlederry.  The 
beautiful,  arrogant  woman  was  like  the  dream-woman  of  his 
romances  .  .  .  and  again  she  was  not  like  her;  for  the 
dream- women  had  not  got  Lady  Castlederry 's  look  of  settled 
stupidity  in  her  eyes. 

John  had  hurriedly  quitted  Aggie's  company  on  that 
occasion.  He  knew  why  Aggie  always  contrived  to  meet 
him  in  the  street,  and  he  thought  that  she  was  a  poor  fool 
of  a  girl  to  do  it.  And  her  brother  Willie  was  a  "great 
gumph  of  a  fellow, "  to  go  capering  up  and  down  the  road 
in  the  evenings  after  any  girl  that  would  say  a  civil  word 
to  him  or  laugh  when  he  laughed !  .  .  . 

All  the  same,  women  mattered  to  men.  Uncle  Matthew 
had  said  so,  and  Uncle  Matthew  was  in  the  right  of  it.  In 
the  story-books,  women  surged  into  the  hero's  life,  good 
women  and  bad  women  and  even  indifferent  women.  And, 
now,  in  these  plays,  he  could  see  for  himself  that  women  mat- 
tered enormously.  Yet  he  had  never  been  in  love  with  a 
girl !  He  was  not  even  in  love  with  the  dream-woman  of  his 
romances.  She  was  his  reward  for  honourable  and  arduous 
service  .  .  .  that  was  all.  He  was  not  in  love  with  her  any 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  71 

more  than  he  was  in  love  with  a  Sunday  School  prize.  It 
was  a  reward  for  regular  attendance  and  for  accurate  an- 
swers to  Biblical  questions,  and  he  was  glad  to  have  it.  It 
rested  on  the  bookshelf  in  the  drawing-room,  and  sometimes, 
when  there  were  visitors  in  the  house,  his  mother  would  re- 
quest him  to  take  it  down  and  show  it  to  them.  They  would 
read  the  inscription  and  make  remarks  on  the  oddness  of 
Mr.  McCaughan's  signature  and  turn  over  the  pages  of  the 
book  .  .  .  and  then  they  would  hand  it  back  to  him  and  he 
would  replace  it  on  the  shelf  .  .  .  and  no  more  was  said 
about  it.  Really,  his  dream-woman  had  not  meant  much 
more  to  him  than  that.  She  would  be  given  to  him  when 
he  had  won  his  fight,  and  he  would  take  her  and  be  glad  to 
get  her  ...  he  would  be  very  proud  of  her  and  would  ex- 
hibit her  to  his  friends  and  say,  "This  is  my  beautiful 
wife ! ' '  and  then !  .  .  .  oh,  well,  there  did  not  appear  to  be 
anything  else  after  that.  The  book  always  came  to  an  end 
when  the  hero  married  the  heroine.  Probably  she  and  he 
had  children  .  .  .  but,  beyond  the  fact  that  they  lived  hap- 
pily ever  afterwards,  there  did  not  appear  to  be  much  more 
to  say  about  them.  .  .  . 

Somehow,  it  seemed  to  him  now,  as  he  stood  in  the  shelter 
of  the  Pit  Entrance  to  the  Theatre  Royal,  reading  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  that  the  heroine  was  different  from  his  dream- 
woman.  His  dream-woman  had  always  been  very  insub- 
stantial and  remote,  but  Juliet  was  a  real  woman,  alive  and 
passionate,  with  a  real  father  and  a  real  mother.  The  odd 
thing  about  his  dream-woman  was  that  she  did  not  appear  to 
have  any  relatives  ...  at  least  he  had  never  heard  of  any. 
She  had  not  even  got  a  name.  She  never  spoke  to  him.  Al- 
ways, when  the  adventure  was  ended,  he  went  up  to  the 
dream-woman,  waiting  for  him  in  a  misty  manner,  and  he 
took  hold  of  her  hand  and  led  her  away  .  .  .  and  while  he 
was  leading  her  away,  the  adventure  seemed  to  come  to  an 
end  .  .  .  the  picture  dissolved  .  .  .  and  he  could  not  see 
any  more.  Once,  indeed,  he  had  kissed  his  dream-woman 


72  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

...  he  had  kissed  her  exactly  as  he  had  kissed  his  great- 
aunt,  Miss  Clotworthy,  who  was  famous  for  the  fact  that  she 
had  attended  a  Sunday  School  in  Belfast  as  pupil  and 
teacher  for  fifty-seven  years  without  a  break  .  .  .  and  the 
dream-woman  had  taken  the  kiss  in  the  unemotional  manner 
in  which  she  took  hold  of  his  hand  when  he  led  her  away  .  .  . 
and  lost  her !  .  .  . 

There  was  something  wrong  with  his  dream-woman,  he 
told  himself.  This  man  Shakespeare,  so  everybody  said, 
was  the  greatest  poet  England  had  produced  .  .  .  perhaps 
the  greatest  poet  the  world  had  produced  .  .  .  and  he  ought 
to  know  something  of  what  women  were  like.  Whatever 
else  Juliet  might  be,  she  certainly  was  not  like  John 's  dream- 
woman.  She  did  not  stand  at  the  end  of  the  road  waiting 
for  Romeo  to  come  to  her.  She  did  not  wait  until  the  fight 
was  fought  and  won.  She  did  not  offer  a  cold  hand  or  cold 
lips  to  Romeo.  Her  behaviour  was  really  more  like  that  of 
Aggie  Logan  than  that  of  the  dream-woman !  .  .  . 

Aggie  Logan !  That  ' '  girner ' '  with  the  sallow  look  and 
the  giggle !  He  could  see  her  now,  standing  in  the  street 
waiting  for  him,  dabbing  at  her  mouth  with  the  foolish 
handkerchief  she  always  carried  in  her  hand.  What  did  she 
want  to  keep  on  dabbing  at  her  mouth  with  her  handker- 
chief for!  Men  didn't  dab  at  their  mouths.  .  .  .  Nor  did 
the  dream-woman  dab  at  hers.  .  .  .  But  it  was  just  possible 
.  .  .  indeed,  it  was  very  likely,  that  Juliet  dabbed  at 
hers!  .  .  . 

At  that  moment,  the  Pit  Door  opened,  and  John,  having 
paid  his  shilling,  passed  into  the  theatre. 

iii 

He  came  away  from  the  play  in  a  disturbed  and  exalted 
state.  Suddenly  and  compellingly,  he  had  become  aware 
of  the  fact  of  Women.  While  he  sat  in  the  front  row  of 
the  pit,  listening  with  his  whole  body  to  the  play,  something 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  73 

stirred  in  him  and  he  became  aware  of  Women.  The  ac- 
tress who  played  the  part  of  Juliet  had  turned  towards  the 
audience  for  a  few  moments  during  the  performance  and, 
so  it  seemed  to  him,  had  looked  straight  into  his  eyes.  She 
did  not  avert  her  gaze  immediately,  nor  did  he  avert  his. 
He  imagined  that  she  was  appealing  to  him  ...  he  forgot 
that  he  was  sitting  in  the  pit  of  a  theatre  listening  to  a  play 
written  by  a  man  who  had  died  three  hundred  years  ago 
.  .  .  and  remembered  only  that  he  was  a  young  man  with 
aspirations  and  romantic  longings,  and  that  a  young 
woman,  in  a  pitiable  plight,  was  gazing  into  his  eyes  .  .  . 
and  his  heart  reached  out  to  her.  He  drew  in  his  breath 
quickly,  murmuring  a  soft  "Oh,"  and  as  he  did  so,  his 
dream-woman  fell  dead  and  he  did  not  even  turn  to  look 
at  her. 

When  the  play  was  over,  he  had  sat  still  in  his  seat,  more 
deeply  moved  than  he  had  ever  been  before,  overwhelmed 
by  the  disaster  which  had  come  upon  the  young  lovers 
through  the  foolish  brawls  of  their  foolish  elders;  and  it 
was  not  until  an  impatient  woman  had  prodded  him  in  the 
side  that  he  returned  to  reality. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am!"  he  said  and  got  up  and 
hurried  out  of  the  theatre  into  the  street. 

He  went  along  High  Street  towards  Castle  Place,  and  as 
he  walked  along,  he  regarded  each  woman  and  girl  that 
approached  him  with  interest. 

"That  one's  nice-looking!"  he  said  of  a  girl,  and  "That 
one's  ugly!"  he  said  of  another.  He  wondered  why 
it  was  that  all  the  older  women  of  the  working-class  were 
so  misshapen  and  lacking  in  good  looks,  when  so  many  of 
the  girls  of  the  working-class  were  shapely  and  pretty.  Mr. 
Cairnduff  had  told  him  that  Belfast  girls  were  prettier  than 
London  girls.  "London  girls  aren't  pretty  at  all,"  Mr. 
Cairnduff  had  said.  "You'd  walk  miles  in  London  before 
you'd  see  a  pretty  girl,  but  you  wouldn't  walk  ten  yards 
in  Belfast  before  you'd  meet  dozens!"  And  yet,  all  those 


74  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

pretty  working-girls  grew  into  dull,  misshapen,  displeasing 
women.  "It's  getting  married  that  does  it,  I  suppose,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "They  were  all  nice  once,  but  they  mar- 
ried and  grew  ugly ! ' ' 

He  did  not  look  long  at  the  ugly  and  misshapen  women. 
His  eyes  quickly  searched  through  the  crowds  of  passers-by 
for  the  pretty  girls,  and  at  them  he  looked  with  eagerness. 

"There's  no  doubt  about  it,"  he  said  to  himself,  "girls 
are  nice  to  look  at ! " 

He  found  a  restaurant  in  the  street  off  High  Street.  He 
climbed  up  some  stairs,  and  then,  pushing  a  door  open, 
entered  a  large  room,  at  the  back  of  which  was  a  smaller 
room.  A  girl  was  standing  at  a  window,  looking  out  on  to 
the  street,  but  she  turned  her  head  when  she  heard  him 
entering.  She  smiled  pleasantly  as  he  sat  down,  and  came 
forward  to  take  his  order. 

"It's  turned  out  a  brave  day  after  all,"  she  said. 

He  said  "Aye"  and  smiled  at  her  in  return.  She  had 
thick,  fair  hair,  and  he  remembered  Bassanio's  description 
of  Portia: 

And  her  sunny  locks 
Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece. 

He  had  a  curious  desire  to  talk  to  the  girl  about  the  play 
he  had  just  seen,  and  before  he  gave  his  order,  he  glanced 
about  the  room.  She  and  he  were  the  only  persons  in  it. 

' '  You  don 't  seem  to  be  very  busy, ' '  he  said. 

"Och,  indeed,  we're  not,"  she  replied.  "We  seldom  are 
on  a  Saturday.  Mrs.  Bothwell  .  .  .  her  that  owns  the  place 
.  .  .  thought  mebbe  some  football  fellows  might  come  here 
for  their  tea  after  the  matches  so's  they  needn't  go  home  be- 
fore starting  for  the  Empire  or  the  Alhambra;  but,  sure, 
none  of  them  ever  comes.  We  might  as  well  be  shut  for  all 
the  custom  we  get!" 

He  ordered  his  tea,  and  she  went  to  the  small  room  at  the 
back  of  the  large  room  to  prepare  it.  He  thought  it  would 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  75 

be  a  good  plan  to  ask  the  girl  if  she  would  care  to  have  her 
tea  with  him,  but  a  sudden  shyness  prevented  him  from 
doing  so,  and  he  was  unable  to  say  more  than  "Thank 
you"  when  she  put  the  teapot  by  his  side.  There  was 
plenty  for  two  on  the  table,  he  said  to  himself :  a  loaf  and 
a  bap  and  some  soda-farls  and  a  potato  cake  and  the  half  of 
a  barn-brack  and  butter  and  raspberry  jam.  He  looked 
across  the  room  to  where  the  girl  was  again  looking  out  of 
the  window.  He  liked  the  way  she  stood,  with  one  hand 
resting  on  her  hip  and  the  other  on  her  cheek.  He  could 
see  that  she  had  small  feet  and  slender  ankles,  and  while 
he  looked  at  her,  she  rubbed  her  foot  against  her  leg  and 
he  saw  for  a  moment  or  two  the  flash  of  a  white  petti- 
coat. .  .  . 

' '  I  was  at  the  Royal  the  day ! "  he  called  to  her. 

She  turned  round  quickly.  "Were  you?"  she  said. 
"Was  it  good?" 

"It  was  grand.     I  enjoyed  it  the  best,"  he  answered. 

She  came  towards  him  and  sat  down  at  a  table  near 
to  his.  "What  piece  was  it  you  saw?"  she  asked.  "It's 
Benson's  Company,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes.     I  saw  Romeo  and  Juliet." 

' '  Oh,  that 's  an  awful  sad  piece.  I  cried  my  eyes  out  one 
year  when  I  saw  it!" 

"  It 's  a  great  play, ' '  John  said. 

"I  suppose  you  often  go?"  she  went  on. 

"Last  Saturday  was  the  first  time  I  ever  went  to  a  thea- 
tre. I  saw  The  Merchant  of  Venice.  I'll  go  every  Satur- 
day after  this,  when  there's  a  good  piece  on.  I'm  going 
again  to-night  to  see  Julius  Caesar!" 

"  I  'd  love  to  see  that  piece ! ' ' 

"Would  you?" 

"Aye,  indeed  I  would.  I'm  just  doting  on  the  theatre. 
The  last  piece  I  saw  was  The  Lights  of  London.  It  was 
lovely." 

"I  never  saw  that  bit,"  John  answered.     "You  see  I  live 


76  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

in  Ballyards  and  I  only  come  up  to  town  on  Saturdays." 

"By  your  lone?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded  his  head.  He  poured  out  his  tea,  and  then 
began  to  spread  butter  on  a  piece  of  soda-farl. 

"I'd  be  awful  dull  walking  the  streets  by  myself,"  she 
said,  watching  him  as  he  did  so.  "I'm  a  terrible  one  for 
company.  I  can 't  bear  being  by  myself ! ' ' 

"Company's  good,"  he  said.  "Have  you  had  your  tea 
yet?" 

"I'll  be  having  it  in  a  wee  while !" 

' '  I  wish  you  'd  have  it  with  me ! "     He  spoke  hesitatingly. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't!"  she  exclaimed. 

' '  Sure,  what 's  to  hinder  you  ? ' '    His  voice  became  bolder. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't.     I  couldn't  really!  ..." 

"You  might  as  well  have  it  with  me  as  have  it  by  yourself. 
And  there's  nobody '11  see  you.  Where's  Mrs.  Bothwell?" 

' '  She 's  away  home  with  a  headache !  .  .  . " 

"Then  you're  all  by  yourself  here!"  She  nodded  her 
head.  ' '  What  time  do  you  shut  ?  "  he  went  on. 

"Half -six  generally,  but  Mrs.  Bothwell  said  I'd  better 
shut  at  six  the  night ! ' ' 

He  took  a  cup  and  saucer  and  a  knife  and  plate  from  an 
adjoining  table  and  put  them  down  opposite  his  own. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  "and  have  your  tea!" 

"Och,  I  couldn't,"  she  protested  weakly. 

He  poured  out  some  of  the  tea  for  her.  ' '  I  suppose  you 
take  milk  and  sugar?"  he  said. 

"You're  a  terrible  fellow,"  she  murmured  admiringly, 
and  he  could  see  that  her  eyes  were  shining  with  pleasure. 

"Draw  up  to  the  table,"  he  replied. 

She  hesitated  for  a  little  while,  and  then  she  sat  down. 
' '  This  is  not  very  like  the  thing, ' '  she  murmured. 

"It  doesn't  matter  whether  it  is  or  not,"  he  replied. 
"What '11  you  have  .  .  .  bread  or  soda-farl ?" 

She  helped  herself. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  77 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "I  was  thinking  it  would  be  a  good 
plan  for  the  two  of  us  to  go  to  the  theatre  to-night ! ' ' 

' '  The  two  of  us, ' '  she  exclaimed.     ' '  Me  and  you ! ' ' 

"Aye!     Why  not?" 

She  put  down  her  cup  and  laughed.  "I  never  met  any- 
body in  my  life  that  made  so  much  progress  in  a  short  time 
as  you  do, ' '  she  said.  ' '  What  in  the  earthly  world  put  that 
notion  into  your  head?" 

"There's  no  notion  about  it,"  he  exclaimed.  "I'm  ask- 
ing you  plump  and  plain  will  you  come  to  the  theatre  with 
me  to-night !  .  .  . " 

' '  But  it  wouldn  't  be  like  the  thing  at  all  to  go  to  the  thea- 
tre with  a  boy  that  I  never  saw  before  and  never  heard 
tell  of  'til  this  minute.  I  don 't  even  know  your  name !  .  .  . " 

"John  MacDermott,"  he  said. 

"Are  you  a  Catholic?" 

"No.     I'm  a  Presbyterian." 

"It's  a  Catholic  name,"  she  mused.  "I  know  a  family 
by  the  name  of  MacDermott,  and  they're  desperate  Cath- 
olics. They  live  over  in  Ballymacarrett.  Do  you  know 
them?" 

"  I  do  not.  There  never  was  a  person  in  our  family  was 
a  Catholic  .  .  .  not  that  we  have  mind  of.  Will  you  come 
with  me?" 

"Och,  I  couldn't!" 

"  I'll  not  take  ' No '  for  an  answer ! "  he  said,  " and  I '11  not 
put  another  bite  in  my  mouth  'til  you  say  'Yes.'  D'you 
hear  me?" 

"You've  an  awful  abrupt  way  of  talking,"  she  replied. 

' '  What 's  abrupt  about  it  ? "  he  demanded. 

"Well,  queer  then!"  she  said. 

"I  see  nothing  abrupt  or  queer  about  it.  Are  you  com- 
ing or  are  you  not?" 

"As  if  you  were  used  to  getting  what  you  wanted,  the 
minute  you  wanted  it,"  she  went  on,  disregarding  his  ques- 


78  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

tion  and  intent  on  explaining  the  queerness  of  his  speech. 
"I'd  be  afeard  to  be  your  wife,  you'd  be  such  a  bossy 
man ! ' ' 

1 '  Ah,  quit ! "  he  said.    ' '  Will  you  come  ? ' ' 

"I  might!  .  .  ." 

"Will  you?" 

"Well,  perhaps!  .  .  ." 

' '  Will  you  or  will  you  not  ? ' ' 

' '  You  're  an  awful  man, ' '  she  protested. 

"Will  you  come?" 

"All  right,  then,"  she  replied,  "but!  .  .  ." 

"I'll  have  some  more  tea,"  said  John.  He  looked  round 
the  room  while  she  poured  the  tea  into  his  cup.  "Are  there 
any  more  cakes  or  buns?"  he  asked. 

' '  Yes,  would  you  like  some  ? ' ' 

"Bring  a  plate  full,"  he  said.  "Bring  some  with  sugar 
on  the  top  and  jam  in  the  middle!" 

' '  Florence  cakes  ? ' ' 

"Aye!" 

"You've  a  sweet  tongue  in  your  head!"  She  went  to 
the  small  room  as  she  spoke. 

"I  have,"  he  exclaimed.  "And  I  daresay  you  have, 
too!" 

iv 

"You  never  told  me  your  name,"  he  said,  when  she  re- 
turned with  the  plate  of  cakes. 

' '  Give  a  guess ! ' '  she  teased. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment.     "Maggie!"  he  said. 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"I  didn't  know,"  he  answered.  "You  look  like  a  Mag- 
gie. What 's  your  other  name  ? ' ' 

"Carmichael!" 

"Maggie  Carmichael!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  a  nice 
name!" 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  it, ' '  she  said. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  79 


He  sat  back  in  his  chair  while  she  went  to  prepare  for  the 
theatre.  How  lucky  it  was  that  he  had  asked  his  Uncle 
William  for  more  money  that  morning  "in  case  I  need  it!" 
If  he  had  not  done  so,  he  would  not  have  been  able  to  offer 
to  take  Maggie  to  the  theatre.  .  .  .  They  would  go  in  by 
the  Early  Door.  There  was  certain  to  be  a  crowd  outside 
the  ordinary  door  on  a  Saturday  night.  What  a  piece  of 
luck  it  was  that  he  had  chosen  to  take  his  tea  in  this  place 
instead  of  the  restaurant  to  which  he  usually  went.  Mrs. 
Bothwell's  headache,  too,  that  was  a  piece  of  luck,  for  him, 
although  not,  perhaps,  for  her.  He  liked  the  look  of  Mag- 
gie. He  liked  her  bright  face  and  her  laugh  and  her 
beautiful,  golden  hair.  What  was  that  bit  again? 

In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left,  7 

And  she  is  fair  and  fairer  than  that  word 
Of  wondrous  virtue.  .  .  . 

and  then  again : 

.  .  .  and  her  sunny  locks 
Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece. 

Maggie  came  out  of  the  small  room,  ready  for  the  street, 
and  he  sat  and  watched  her  as  she  shut  the  door  behind  her. 

"I  believe  I'm  in  love,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  believe 
lam!" 

"Are  you  ready?"  he  said  aloud. 

"I've  only  to  draw  the  blinds  and  then  lock  the  door!" 
she  replied. 

"I'll  draw  them  for  you,"  he  said,  going  over  to  the 
windows  and  drawing  down  the  blinds  as  he  spoke.  "Did 
you  ever  see  The  Merchant  of  Venice?"  he  asked  when  he 
had  done  so. 

"No,  "she  said. 

' '  There 's  a  bit  in  it  that  makes  me  think  of  you, ' '  he  went 
on. 


80  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

''Oh,  now,  don't  start  plastering  me,"  she  exclaimed 
gaily. 

"I  mean  it,"  he  said,  and  he  quoted  the  lines  about  Por- 
tia's sunny  locks. 

" That's  poetry,"  she  said. 

"It  is!"  he  replied. 

' '  It 's  queer  and  nice ! ' ' 

She  opened  the  door  leading  to  the  stairs,  and  then  went 
back  to  the  room  to  turn  out  the  light.  The  room  was  in 
semi-darkness,  save  where  a  splash  of  yellow  light  from  the 
staircase  fell  at  the  doorway. 

He  turned  towards  her  as  she  made  her  way  to  the  door, 
and  put  out  his  hand  to  her.  She  took  hold  of  it,  and  as 
she  did  so,  he  caught  her  quickly  to  him  and  drew  her  into 
his  arms  and  kissed  her  soft,  warm  lips. 

"You're  an  awful  wee  fellow,"  she  said,  freeing  herself 
from  his  embrace  and  smiling  at  him. 

He  did  not  answer  her,  but  his  heart  was  singing  inside 
him.  I  love  her.  I  know  I  love  her.  I  love  her.  I  love 
her.  I  know  I  love  her. 

They  went  down  the  stairs  together,  and  as  they  emerged 
into  the  street,  he  put  his  arm  in  hers  and  drew  her  close 
to  him.  Almost  he  wished  that  they  were  not  going  to  the 
theatre,  that  they  might  walk  like  this,  arm  in  arm,  for  the 
remainder  of  the  evening.  He  could  still  feel  the  warmth  of 
her  lips  on  his,  and  he  wished  that  they  could  go  to  some 
quiet  place  so  that  he  might  kiss  her  again.  But  he  had 
asked  her  to  go  to  the  theatre,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  dis- 
appoint her.  They  entered  the  theatre  by  the  Early  Door, 
and  sat  in  the  middle  of  the  front  row  of  the  pit.  There 
was  a  queer  silence  in  the  theatre,  for  the  ordinary  doors 
had  not  yet  opened,  and  the  occasional  murmur  of  a  voice 
echoed  oddly.  John  put  his  arm  in  Maggie's  and  wound 
his  fingers  in  hers,  and  felt  the  pressure  of  her  hand  against 
his  hand.  When  the  ordinary  doors  of  the  theatre  were 
opened  and  the  crowd  came  pouring  in,  he  hardly  seemed 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  81 

aware  of  the  people  searching  for  good  seats.  Maggie  had 
tried  to  withdraw  her  hand  from  his  when  she  heard  the 
noise  of  the  people  hurrying  down  the  stone  steps,  but  he 
had  not  released  her,  and  she  had  remained  content.  And 
so  they  sat  while  the  theatre  quickly  filled.  Presently  an 
attendant  with  programmes  and  chocolates  came  towards 
them,  and  he  purchased  a  box  of  chocolates  for  her. 

"You  shouldn't  have  done  that,"  she  said,  making  the 
polite  protest. 

"I've  always  heard  girls  are  fond  of  sweeties,"  he  re- 
plied. 

He  put  the  box  of  chocolates  in  her  lap,  and  opened  the 
programme  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"It's  a  long  piece,"  she  said,  "with  a  whole  lot  of  acts 
and  scenes  in  it.  That's  the  sort  of  piece  I  like  .  .  .  with 
a  whole  lot  of  changes  in  it ! " 

"Do  you?"  he  said. 

"Yes.  I  came  here  one  time  to  see  a  piece  that  was 
greatly  praised  in  the  Whig  and  the  Newsletter,  and  do  you 
know  they  used  the  same  scene  in  every  act !  I  thought  it 
was  a  poor  miserly  sort  of  a  play.  The  bills  said  it  was 
a  London  company,  but  I  don't  believe  that  was  true.  They 
were  just  letting  on  to  be  from  London.  They  couldn't 
have  had  much  money  behind  them  when  they  couldn't  af- 
ford more  nor  the  one  scene,  could  they?" 

"Mebbe  you're  right,"  he  answered. 

The  members  of  the  orchestra  came  into  the  theatre,  and 
after  a  while  the  music  began.  The  lights  in  the  theatre 
were  diminished  and  then  were  extinguishd,  and  the  curtain 
went  up.  John  snuggled  closer  to  Maggie. 

vi 

He  was  scarcely  aware  of  the  performance  on  the  stage, 
so  aware  was  he  of  the  nearness  of  Maggie.  He  heard  ap- 
plause, but  he  did  not  greatly  heed  it.  He  was  in  love.  He 


82  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

had  never  been  in  love  before,  and  he  had  always  thought  of 
it  as  something  very  different  from  this,  something  cold  and 
austere  and  aloof  and  very  dignified  .  .  .  not  at  all  like  this 
warm,  intimate,  careless  thing.  He  slipped  his  hand  from 
Maggie 's  and  slowly  put  his  arm  round  her  waist.  She  did 
not  resist  him,  and  when  he  drew  her  more  closely  to  him 
so  that  their  heads  were  nearly  touching,  she  yielded  to  him 
without  demur.  He  could  feel  her  heart  beating  where  his 
hand  pressed  against  her  side,  and  he  heard  the  slow  rise 
and  fall  of  her  breath  as  she  inhaled  and  exhaled.  He 
could  not  get  near  enough  to  her.  He  wanted  to  draw  her 
head  down  on  to  his  shoulder,  to  put  both  his  arms  about 
her,  to  feel  again  his  lips  on  her  lips.  .  .  . 

He  started  suddenly.  Someone  was  tapping  him  on  the 
shoulder.  He  turned  round  to  meet  the  gaze  of  an  elderly, 
indignant  woman  who  was  seated  immediately  behind 
him. 

' '  Sit  still, ' '  she  said  in  a  loud  whisper.  ' '  I  can 't  see  the 
stage  for  you  two  ducking  your  heads  together ! ' ' 

vii 

He  took  his  arm  away  from  Maggie's  waist,  and  edged 
a  little  away  from  her.  He  felt  angry  and  humiliated.  He 
told  himself  that  he  did  not  care  who  saw  him  putting  his 
arm  about  Maggie's  waist,  but  was  aware  that  this  was  not 
true,  that  he  deeply  resented  being  overlooked  in  his  love- 
making.  He  did  not  wish  anyone  to  behold  him  in  this  inti- 
mate relationship  with  Maggie,  and  he  was  full  of  fury 
against  the  woman  behind  him  because  she  had  seen  him 
fondling  her.  For  of  course  the  woman  knew  that  he  had 
his  arm  about  Maggie  .  .  .  and  now  her  neighbours  would 
know,  too.  The  whole  theatre  would  know  that  he  had  been 
embracing  the  girl!  .  .  .  Well,  what  if  they  did  know? 
Let  them  know!  There  was  no  harm  in  a  fellow  putting 
his  arm  round  a  girl's  waist.  It  was  a  natural  thing  for 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  83 

a  fellow  to  do,  particularly  if  the  girl  were  so  pretty  and 
warm  and  loving  as  Maggie  Carmichael.  The  woman  her- 
self had  no  doubt  had  a  man's  arm  round  her  waist  once 
upon  a  time.  He  did  not  care  who  knew!  .  .  .  All  the 
same !  .  .  .  No,  he  did  not  care !  .  .  .  He  slipped  his  hand 
into  Maggie's  hand  again,  and  then  quickly  withdrew  it. 
She  was  holding  a  sticky  chocolate  in  her  fingers !  .  .  . 

He  lost  all  interest  in  the  play  now.  It  would  be  truer, 
perhaps,  to  say  that  he  had  not  begun  to  be  interested  in 
it,  and  now  that  he  tried  to  follow  it,  he  could  not  do  so. 
His  mind  constantly  reverted  to  the  indignant  woman  be- 
hind him.  He  imagined  her  looking,  first  this  way  and 
then  that,  in  her  efforts  to  see  the  stage,  getting  angrier 
and  more  angry  as  she  was  thwarted  in  her  desire,  and 
then,  in  her  final  indignation,  leaning  forward  to  tap  on 
his  shoulder  and  beg  him  to  keep  his  head  apart  from  Mag- 
gie's so  that  she  might  conveniently  see  the  stage.  His 
sense  of  violated  privacy  became  stronger.  His  love  for 
Maggie,  for  he  accepted  it  now  as  a  settled  fact,  was  not 
a  thing  for  prying  eyes  to  witness :  it  was  a  secret,  intimate 
thing  in  which  she  and  he  alone  were  concerned.  He  hated 
the  thought  that  anyone  else  in  the  theatre  should  know  that 
Maggie  and  he  were  sweethearts,  newly  in  love  and  warm 
with  the  glow  of  their  first  affection.  And  then,  when  he 
had  slipped  his  hand  back  into  hers,  he  had  encountered 
a  sticky  chocolate !  While  he  was  burning  with  feeling  for 
her  and  with  resentment  against  the  old  woman 's  intrusion 
into  their  love  affair,  Maggie  had  been  chewing  chocolate 
quite  unconcernedly.  In  that  crisis  of  their  love,  she  had 
remained  unmoved.  When  he  had  released  her  hand,  she 
had  simply  put  it  into  the  box  of  chocolates  and  taken  out 
a  sticky  sweet  and  had  eaten  it  with  as  little  emotion  as  if 
he  had  not  been  present  at  all,  as  if  his  ardent,  pressing 
arm  had  not  been  suddenly  withdrawn  from  her  waist  be- 
cause of  that  angry  intruder  into  their  happiness.  She  had 
taken  his  hand  when  he  gave  it  to  her,  and  had  released  it 


84  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

again  when  he  withdrew  it,  without  any  appearance  of  de- 
sire or  reluctance.  He  had  imagined  that  she  would  take 
his  hand  eagerly  and  yield  it  up  unwillingly,  that  she  would 
try  to  restrain  him  when  he  endeavoured  to  take  his  hand 
away  from  hers  .  .  .  but  she  had  not  done  so. 

Perhaps  she  did  not  love  him  as  he  loved  her.  Perhaps 
she  did  not  love  him  at  all.  After  all,  he  had  met  her  for 
the  first  time  about  three  hours  earlier  in  the  evening. 
Only  three  hours  ago !  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  he  had 
not  loved  her  for  centuries,  had  not  often  felt  her  heart 
beating  beneath  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  had  not  fre- 
quently put  his  lips  to  her  lips  and  been  enchanted  by  her 
kisses.  Why,  he  had  only  kissed  her  once.  Only  once! 
Once  only!  .  .  .  He  looked  at  her  as  she  sat  by  his  side, 
gazing  intently  at  the  stage.  He  could  see  a  protuberance 
in  her  cheek,  made  by  a  piece  of  chocolate,  and  as  he  looked 
at  her,  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  terrible  thing  that  this  girl 
did  not  love  him.  His  love  had  gone  out  to  her,  quickly, 
insurgently  and  fully,  and  perhaps  she  thought  no  more  of 
him  than  she  might  think  of  any  chance  friend  who  offered 
to  take  her  to  see  a  play.  She  might  have  spent  many  eve- 
nings in  this  very  theatre  with  other  men.  Had  she  not 
told  him  that  afternoon  that  she  hated  to  be  alone !  He  had 
put  his  arm  about  her  waist  in  a  public  place  and  had  been 
humiliated  for  doing  so,  but  nothing  of  this  had  meant  much 
to  Maggie.  She  was  quite  willing  to  let  him  embrace  her 
.  .  .  perhaps  she  thought  that  she  ought  to  allow  him  to 
hug  her  as  a  return  for  the  treat  at  the  theatre  ...  or 
perhaps  she  liked  to  feel  a  man's  arm  about  her  waist  and 
did  not  much  care  who  the  man  might  be.  Some  girls 
were  like  that.  Willie  Logan  had  told  him  that  Carrie  Fur- 
long was  the  girl  of  any  fellow  who  liked  to  walk  up  the 
road  with  her.  She  did  not  care  with  whom  she  went :  all 
that  she  cared  about  was  that  she  should  have  some  boy  in 
her  company.  She  would  kiss  anybody. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  85 

Was  Maggie  Carmichael  like  that?  Would  she  kiss  this 
one  or  that  one,  just  as  the  mood  took  her?  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  she 
could  not  be  like  that.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  fall  in 
love  with  a  girl  who  distributed  kisses  as  carelessly  and  im- 
passionately  as  a  boy  distributes  handbills.  He  felt  cer- 
tain that  he  could  not  fall  in  love  with  a  girl  of  that  sort, 
that  some  instinct  in  him  would  prevent  him  from  going  so. 
Other  fellows  might  make  a  mistake  of  that  kind  .  .  .  Wil- 
lie Logan,  for  example  .  .  .  but  a  MacDermott  could  not 
make  one.  Maggie  must  be  in  love  with  him  .  .  .  she  must 
have  fallen  in  love  with  him  as  suddenly  as  he  had  fallen 
in  love  with  her  .  .  .  otherwise  she  could  not  have  con- 
sented so  readily  to  accompany  him  to  the  theatre.  When 
he  had  taken  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  she  had  yielded 
to  him  so  naturally,  as  if  she  had  been  in  his  arms  many 
times  before!  .  .  .  Perhaps,  though,  the  ease  with  which 
she  had  yielded  to  him  denoted  that  she  had  had  much  ex- 
perience !  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  no !  No,  no !  She  was  his  girl,  not 
anybody  else's  girl.  He  could  not  have  her  for  a  sweet- 
heart, if  she  shared  her  love  with  other  men.  He  must  have 
her  entirely  to  himself !  .  .  . 

Oh,  what  a  torturing,  doubt-raising,  perplexing  thing 
this  Love  was!  A  few  hours  ago  lie  had  known  nothing 
whatever  of  it  ...  had  merely  imagined  cold,  austere, 
wrong  things  about  it  ...  and  now  it  had  hold  of  him  and 
was  hurting  him.  Every  particle  of  his  mind  was  concen- 
trated on  this  girl  by  his  side  ...  a  stranger  to  him.  He 
knew  nothing  of  her  except  her  name  and  that  she  was  em- 
ployed as  a  waitress  in  a  restaurant.  She  was  a  stranger  to 
him  .  .  .  and  yet  a  fierce,  unquenchable  love  for  her  was 
raging  in  his  heart.  Each  moment,  the  flames  of  his  pas- 
sion increased  in  strength.  When  he  looked  away  from 
her,  he  could  see  her  in  his  mind's  eye.  Each  of  the  players 
on  the  stage  looked  like  Maggie.  .  .  .  And  there  she  was,  all 
unaware  of  this  strong  emotion  in  him,  placidly  sitting  in 
her  seat,  gazing  at  the  actors!  Do  women  feel  love  as 


86  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

strongly  as  men  do?  he  asked  himself  as  he  looked  at  her, 
and  as  he  did  so  she  turned  her  head  to  him,  conscious 
perhaps  of  his  stare,  and  when  her  eyes  met  his  in  the 
glowing  dusk  of  the  theatre,  she  smiled,  and,  seeing  her 
smile,  he  forgot  his  doubt  and  remembered  only  the  great 
joy  of  loving  her. 

viii 

He  insisted  on  taking  her  to  her  home,  although  she 
stoutly  declared  that  this  was  unnecessary.  She  lived  at 
Stranmillis,  she  said,  and  the  journey  there  and  back  would 
make  him  miss  his  train;  but  he  swore  that  he  had  plenty 
of  time,  and  would  not  listen  to  her  dissuasions.  When 
they  reached  the  terminus  at  the  Botanic  Gardens,  she  tried 
to  insist  that  he  should  return  to  town  in  the  tram  by  which 
they  had  come  out,  but  he  said  that  he  must  walk  with  her 
for  a  while.  She  would  not  let  him  accompany  her  to  the 
door  of  her  home  ...  he  must  leave  her  at  a  good  distance 
from  it  ...  and  to  this  he  agreed,  for  he  knew  what  the  eti- 
quette of  these  matters  is.  He  put  his  arm  in  hers,  again 
drawing  her  close  to  him,  and,  listening  to  her  laughter, 
he  walked  in  gladness  by  her  side.  It  was  she  who  stopped. 
"I'll  say  'Good-night'  to  you  here,"  she  said. 

"Not  yet,"  he  replied. 

"You'll  miss  your  train,"  she  warned  him. 

He  did  not  heed  her  warning,  but  drew  her  into  the 
shadow  and  held  her  tightly  to  him. 

"Don't!"  she  stammered,  but  could  not  speak  any  more 
because  of  the  strength  of  his  kisses. 

Very  long  he  held  her  thus,  his  arms  tightly  round  her 
and  her  lips  closebound  to  his,  and  then  with  a  great  sigh 
of  pleasure,  he  released  her. 

"You're  a  desperate  fellow,"  she  said,  half  scared,  and 
she  laughed  a  little. 

She  glanced  about  her  for  a  moment.  ' '  I  must  run  now, ' ' 
she  said,  holding  out  her  hand. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  87 

"Not  yet,"  he  said  again. 

"Oh,  but  I  must.  I  must!"  she  insisted.  "Good- 
night!" 

He  took  her  hand.  "Good-night,"  he  replied,  but  did 
not  let  her  hand  go. 

She  laughed  nervously.  ' '  What 's  wrong  with  you  ? ' '  she 
said. 

"I  .  .  .  I'm  in  love  with  you,  Maggie!"  he  murmured, 
almost  inarticulately. 

Her  laughter  lost  its  nervousness.  "You're  a  boy  in  a 
hurry  and  a  half!"  she  said. 

' '  I  know.     Kiss  me,  Maggie ! ' ' 

She  held  up  her  face  to  him.     "There,  then!"  she  said. 

He  kissed  her  again,  and  then  again,  and  yet  again. 

"You're  hurting  me,"  she  exclaimed  ruefully. 

"  It 's  because  I  love  you  so  much,  Maggie ! "  he  said. 

' '  Well,  let  me  go  now !  .  .  . "  She  stood  away  from  him. 
"You  have  me  all  crumpled  up,"  she  said.  "I'll  be  a  ter- 
rible sight  when  I  get  in!  Anybody 'd  think  you'd  never 
kissed  a  girl  before  in  your  life!" 

"I  haven't,"  he  replied. 

"You  what?" 

"I  haven't.  I've  never  kissed  any  other  girl  but 
you!" 

"You  don't  expect  me  to  believe  a  yarn  like  that?"  she 
said. 

"It's  the  God's  truth,"  he  answered. 

' '  Well,  nobody  'd  think  it  from  the  way  you  behave ! ' ' 

He  regarded  her  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Then  he 
said,  "Have  you  ever  kissed  anyone  before?" 

"I'm  twenty-two."  she  replied. 

He  had  not  thought  of  her  age,  but  if  he  had  done  so, 
he  would  not  have  imagined  that  she  was  more  than  nine- 
teen. 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  he  asked. 

"A  lot,"  she  replied.     "You  don't  think  a  girl  as  nice- 


88  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

looking  as  me  has  reached  my  age  without  having  kissed  a 
fellow,  do  you?" 

' '  Then  you  have  kissed  someone  else  ? ' ' 

"  I  've  kissed  dozens, ' '  she  said.     ' '  Good-night,  John ! ' ' 

She  turned  and  ran  swiftly  from  him,  laughing  lightly 
as  she  ran,  and  for  a  second  or  two,  he  stood  blankly  look- 
ing after  her.  Then  he  called  to  her,  "Wait,  Maggie. 
Wait  a  minute ! ' '  and  ran  after  her. 

She  stopped  when  she  heard  him  calling,  and  waited  for 
him  to  come  up  to  her. 

"When '11  I  see  you  again?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  dear  knows!"  she  replied. 

' '  Will  you  come  to  the  theatre  with  me  next  Saturday  ? ' ' 

"I  might!" 

' '  Will  you  get  the  day  off ,  and  we  '11  go  in  the  afternoon 
and  evening,  too?" 

' '  I  mightn  't  be  let, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Mrs.  Bothwell  mightn  't 
agree  to  it ! " 

"Ask  her  anyway!  .  .  ." 

' '  I  will,  then.     Good-night,  John ! ' ' 

He  snatched  at  her  hand.     "Listen,  Maggie,"  he  said. 

' '  What  ? ' '  she  answered. 

"Do  you  ...  do  you  like  me?" 

"Ummm  .  .  .  mebbe  I  do!" 

"I  love  you,  Maggie!" 

"Aye,  so  you  say!"  she  said. 

"Do  you  not  believe  me?  .  .  ." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"It's  true,"  he  affirmed.     "I  love  you!  .  .  ." 

"Good-night,"  she  said. 

' '  Good-night,  Maggie ! ' ' 

He  released  her  hand,  but  she  did  not  go  immediately. 
She  came  close  to  him,  and  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
drew  his  face  down  to  hers,  and  kissed  him. 

"You're  a  nice  wee  fellow,"  she  said.  "I  like  you  queer 
and  well!" 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  89 

Then  she  withdrew  her  arms,  and  this  time  he  did  not  try 
to  detain  her. 

ix 

He  missed  the  last  train  to  Ballyards,  but  he  did  not  mind 
that.  He  set  out  bravely  to  walk  from  Belfast.  The  silence 
of  the  streets,  the  deeper  silence  of  the  country  roads,  ac- 
corded with  the  pleasure  in  his  heart.  He  sang  to  himself, 
and  sometimes  he  sang  aloud.  He  was  in  love  with  Maggie 
Carmichael,  and  she  .  .  .  she  liked  him  queer  and  well.  He 
could  hardly  feel  the  ground  beneath  his  feet.  The  road 
ran  away  from  him.  The  moon  and  the  stars  shared  his  ex- 
ultation, and  the  trees  gaily  waved  their  branches  to  him, 
and  the  leaves  of  the  trees  beat  their  hands  together  in 
applause.  "And  her  sunny  locks  Hang  on  her  temples 
like  a  golden  fleece,"  he  said  aloud.  .  .  . 

It  was  very  late  when  he  reached  the  door  of  the  shop 
in  Ballyards.  His  Uncle  William  was  standing  in  the 
shade  of  the  doorway,  peering  anxiously  into  the  street. 

' '  Is  that  you,  John  ? "  he  called  out,  while  John  was  still 
some  distance  away  from  the  shop. 

"Aye,  Uncle  William,"  John  called  out  in  reply. 

Uncle  William  came  to  meet  him.  "Oh,  whatever  kept 
you,  boy?"  he  said  when  they  met. 

' '  I  missed  the  train, ' '  John  answered. 

"Your  Uncle  Matthew,  John!  ..." 

Anxiety  came  into  John's  mind.  "Yes,  Uncle?"  he 
said. 

"He's  bad,  John.  Desperate  bad!  We  had  to  send  for 
Dr.  Uobbs  an  hour  ago,  and  he's  still  with  him.  I  thought 
you'd  never  reach  home!" 

All  the  joy  fell  straight  out  of  John's  heart.  He  did 
not  speak.  He  walked  swiftly  to  the  house,  and  passing 
through  the  shop,  entered  the  kitchen,  followed  by  his 
Uncle  William. 


THE  FOURTH  CHAPTER 


"YouR  ma's  upstairs  with  the  doctor  and  him,"  said  Uncle 
William,  closing  the  kitchen  door  behind  him. 

"Is  he  very  bad?"  John  asked  in  an  anxious  voice. 

"I'm  afeard  so,"  Uncle  William  replied. 

John  went  towards  the  staircase,  but  his  uncle  called  him 
back.  "Better  not  go  up  yet  awhile,"  he  said.  "The 
doctor '11  be  down  soon,  mebbe,  and  he'll  tell  you  whether 
you  can  go  up  or  not." 

"Very  well,"  John  murmured,  coming  back  into  the 
kitchen  and  sitting  down  beside  the  fire. 

"It  come  on  all  of  a  sudden  just  before  bedtime,"  Uncle 
William  went  on.  "He  wasn't  looking  too  grand  all  the 
morning,  as  you  know,  but  we  never  thought  much  of  it. 
He  never  was  strong,  and  he  hasn't  the  strength  to  fight 
against  his  disease.  If  he  dies,  I  '11  be  the  last  of  the  three 
brothers.  Death's  a  strange  thing,  John.  Your  da  was  the 
cleverest  and  the  wisest  of  us  all,  and  he  was  the  first  to 
go;  and  now  your  Uncle  Matthew,  that's  wise  in  his  way, 
and  has  a  great  amount  of  knowledge  in  his  head,  is  going 
too  .  .  .  the  second  of  us  ...  and  I'm  left,  the  one  that 
could  be  easiest  spared.  It 's  queer  to  take  the  best  one  first 
and  leave  the  worst  'til  the  last.  You'd  near  think  God 
had  a  grudge  against  the  world!  .  .  .  What  were  you  do- 
ing in  Belfast  the  day?" 

' '  I  went  to  the  theatre. ' ' 

' '  Aye.     What  did  you  see  ?  " 

"I  saw  Romeo  and  Juliet  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and 

90 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  91 

Julius  C(£sar  at  night!"  John  answered.  "Is  my  Uncle 
Matthew  unconscious  ? ' ' 

"No.  He  has  all  his  senses  about  him.  He  knows  well 
he's  dying.  Did  he  never  speak  to  you  about  that?" 

John  shook  his  head.  "I  couldn't  bear  it  if  he  did. 
Does  he  mind,  d  'you  think  ? ' ' 

"No,  he  does  not.  Why  should  he  mind ?  It's  us  that's 
left  behind  that 's  to  be  pitied,  not  them  that  goes.  I  can 't 
make  out  the  people  of  these  days,  the  way  they  pity  the 
dead  and  dying,  when  it's  the  living's  to  be  pitied.  Did 
you  like  the  plays,  John  ? ' ' 

John  roused  himself  to  answer.  "Aye,"  he  said,  "they 
were  grand.  What  happened  when  he  took  bad?" 

"We  had  just  had  our  supper,  and  he  started  to  go  up 
the  stairs,  and  all  of  a  sudden  he  called  out  for  your  ma, 
and  we  both  ran  to  him  together,  her  and  me,  and  the  look 
on  his  face  frightened  me.  I  didn't  stop  to  hear  what  was 
wrong.  I  went  off  to  fetch  Dr.  Dobbs  as  quick  as  I  could 
move.  I  never  saw  Julius  Cc&sar  myself,  but  I  mind  well 
the  time  I  saw  Romeo  and  Juliet.  It  was  an  awful  long 
time  ago,  when  the  oul'  Theatre  Royal  .  .  .  not  this  one, 
but  the  one  before  it,  that  was  burnt  down  .  .  .  and  we 
saw  Romeo  and  Juliet.  That 's  a  tremendous  piece,  John ! 
It  gripped  a  hold  of  my  heart,  I  can  tell  you,  and  I  came 
away  from  the  theatre  with  the  tears  streaming  down  my 
face.  I  always  was  a  soft  one,  anyway.  That  poor  young 
boy  and  his  lovely  wee  girl  tormented  and  tortured  by  peo- 
ple that  was  older  nor  them,  but  hadn't  half  the  sense! 
It  grips  you,  that  play ! ' ' 

"Aye,"  said  John. 

"You'll  hardly  believe  me,  John,  but  the  play  was  so  real 
to  me  that  when  they  talked  about  getting  married,  I  said 
to  myself  I  'd  go  and  see  the  wedding.  I  did  by  my  troth  I ' ' 

"Eh?"  said  John  abstractedly. 

"I  was  talking  about  the  play!  ..." 

"Oh,  aye,  aye!    Aye!" 


92  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"It  sounds  silly,  I  know,"  Uncle  William  continued, 
"but  it's  the  God's  own  truth,  as  sure  as  I'm  sitting  here. 
And  whenever  I  pass  'The  Royal,'  I  always  think  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  I  see  that  poor  boy  and  girl 
stretched  dead,  and  them  ought  to  have  been  happy  together 
and  having  fine,  strong  childher ! ' ' 

' '  I  wonder  how  he  is  now .  Do  you  think  I  should  go  up 
now?"  John  said. 

"Wait  'til  the  doctor  comes  down.  I  have  great  faith 
in  Dr.  Dobbs.  He  never  humbugs  you,  that  man,  but  tells 
you  plump  and  plain  what's  wrong  with  you!"  He  sat 
back  in  his  chair,  and  for  a  while  there  was  no  sound  in  the 
kitchen  but  the  noise  of  the  clock  and  the  small  drooping 
noise  made  by  the  dying  fire.  There  was  no  sound  from 
overhead. 

Uncle  William  glanced  at  the  clock.  He  got  up  and 
stopped  the  pendulum.  "I  can't  bear  the  sound  of  it," 
he  said  to  John  as  he  sat  down  again.  They  remained  in 
silence  for  a  while  longer,  and  then  Uncle  William  got  up 
and  started  the  clock  again.  "Mebbe  .  .  .  mebbe,  it's  bet- 
ter for  it  to  be  going. ' '  he  said. 

He  searched  for  his  pipe  on  the  mantel-shelf  and,  when  he 
had  found  it,  lit  it  with  a  coal  which  he  picked  out  of  the 
fire  with  the  tongs. 

' '  Your  Uncle  Matthew  was  terribly  upset  by  it, ' '  he  said, 
reverting  to  the  play.  "It  was  a  wild  and  wet  night,  and 
we  had  to  walk  every  inch  of  the  way,  for  there  was  no  late 
trains  in  them  days,  John,  and  we  were  drenched  to  the 
skin.  Your  Uncle  Matthew  never  said  one  wtfrd  to  me  the 
whole  road  home.  He  just  held  his  head  high  and  stared 
straight  in  front  of  him,  and  when  I  looked  at  him,  though 
the  night  was  dark,  I  could  see  that  his  fists  were  clenched 
and  his  lips  were  moving,  though  he  didn't  speak.  You 
never  see  no  plays  like  that,  these  days,  John.  The  last 
piece  I  saw  in  Belfast  was  a  fearful  foolish  piece,  with  a  lot 
of  love  and  villainy  in  it.  The  girl  was  near  drowned  in 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  93 

real  water,  and  then  the  villain  tied  her  on  to  a  circular 
saw,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  hero  coming  in  the  nick 
of  time,  she'd  have  been  cut  in  two.  No  man  would  treat  a 
woman  that  way,  tying  her  on  to  a  saw!  I'm  afeard  some 
of  these  pieces  nowadays  are  terribly  foolish,  John,  so  I 
never  want  to  go  now ! ' ' 

ii 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  pres- 
ently Dr.  Dobbs,  a  lean,  stooping  man,  came  into  the 
kitchen,  followed  by  Mrs.  MacDermott.  The  Doctor 
nodded  to  John,  and  Mrs.  MacDermott  said,  "You're 
back ! ' '  and  then  went  into  the  scullery  from  which  she  soon 
returned,  carrying  a  glass  with  which  she  hurried  upstairs 
again. 

' '  Your  Uncle 's  been  asking  for  you,  John, ' '  said  the  doc- 
tor, drawing  on  his  gloves. 

' '  Can  I  go  up  and  see  him,  sir  ? "  John  asked. 

' '  In  a  minute  or  two.  Your  mother '11  call  for  you  when 
he 's  ready.  I  'm  afraid  there 's  not  much  hope,  William ! ' ' 
the  doctor  said. 

John  leant  against  the  mantel-shelf,  waiting  to  hear  more. 
He  listened  in  a  dazed  way  to  what  the  doctor  was  saying, 
but  hardly  comprehended  it,  for  in  his  mind  the  words, 
"I'm  afraid  there's  not  much  hope!"  made  echoes  and  re 
echoes.  Uncle  Matthew  was  dying,  might,  in  a  little  while, 
be  dead.  Dear,  simple,  honest,  kindly  Uncle  Matthew  who 
had  loved  literature  and  good  faith  too  well,  and  had  suf- 
fered for  his  simple  loyalty. 

"He's  easier  now  than  he  was,"  the  doctor  continued, 
"and  he  may  last  a  good  while  .  .  .  and  he  may  not.  I 
think  he'll  last  a  while  yet,  but  he  might  die  before  the 
morning.  I  want  you  to  be  prepared  for  the  worst.  You 
know  where  to  find  me  if  you  want  me,  William  1 ' ' 

"Yes,  doctor!" 


94  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"I've  left  him  in  good  hands.  Your  mother's  a  great 
nurse,  John, ' '  he  said,  turning  to  the  boy. 

"Can  I  go  up  to  him  now,  doctor?" 

"Yes,  I  think  perhaps  ...  oh,  yes,  I  think  you  may. 
But  go  up  quietly,  will  you,  in  case  he 's  dozed  off !  .  .  . " 

John  did  not  wait  to  hear  any  more,  but,  walking  on  tip- 
toe, went  up  the  stairs  to  his  uncle's  room. 

Uncle  Matthew  turned  to  greet  him  as  he  entered  the 
room. 

' '  Is  that  you,  John  ? "  he  said. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Matthew,"  John  answered,  tiptoeing  to  the 
side  of  the  bed.  "  I  'm  sorry  I  wasn  't  here  earlier.  I  never 
thought!  .  .  ." 

Uncle  Matthew  smiled  at  him.  "Sure,  son,  it  doesn't 
matter.  You  couldn't  know  .  .  .  none  of  us  did.  Well, 
was  the  play  good  ? ' ' 

But  John  did  not  wish  to  speak  about  the  play.  He 
wished  only  to  sit  by  his  Uncle's  bed  and  hold  his  Uncle's 
hand. 

"  I  '11  go  downstairs  now  for  a  wee  while, ' '  Mrs.  MacDer- 
mott  said.  "I  have  a  few  things  to  do,  and  John  can  call 
me  if  you  need  me,  Matt ! ' ' 

"Aye,  Hannah!"  said  Uncle  Matthew. 

John  looked  up  at  his  mother,  but  she  had  turned  to  leave 
the  room,  and  he  could  not  see  her  face. 

He  had  never  heard  her  call  his  Uncle  by  the  name  of 
"Matt"  before,  nor  had  he  often  heard  Uncle  Matthew  use 
her  Christian  name  in  addressing  her.  He  avoided  it,  John 
had  observed,  as  much  as  possible,  and  it  had  seemed  to  him 
that  his  Uncle  did  so  because  of  his  mother's  antagonism  to 
him. 

"What  are  you  staring  at,  John?"  Uncle  Matthew  said 
feebly. 

"She  called  you  'Matt,'  Uncle!" 

' '  That 's  my  name, ' '  Uncle  Matthew  replied,  smiling  at  his 
nephew. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  95 

"Aye,  but!  .  .  ." 

' '  She  used  to  call  me  '  Matt '  before  she  was  married,  and 
for  a  wee  while  afterwards,  when  we  were  all  friends  to- 
gether. Your  da's  death  was  a  fearful  blow  to  her,  and  she 
never  overed  it.  And  she  thought  I  was  a  bad  influence  on 
you,  filling  "your  head  with  stuff  out  of  books.  You  see, 
John,  women  are  not  like  men  .  .  .  they  don 't  value  things 
the  way  we  do  ...  and  things  that  seem  important  to  us, 
aren't  worth  a  flip  of  your  hand  to  them.  And  the  other 
way  round,  I  suppose.  But  a  woman  can 't  be  bitter  against 
a  sick  man,  no  matter  how  much  she  hated  him  when  he  had 
his  health.  That's  where  we  have  the  whiphand  of  them, 
John.  They  can 't  stand  against  us  when  we  're  sick,  but  we 
can  stand  up  against  anything,  well  or  sick !  .  .  . " 

John  remembered  his  mother 's  caution  that  he  was  not  to 
let  his  Uncle  talk  much. 

"You  ought  to  lie  still,  Uncle  Matthew,"  he  said,  but 
Uncle  Matthew  would  not  heed  him. 

"  I  'm  as  well  as  I  '11  ever  be. ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  know  rightly 
I  '11  never  leave  this  bed  'til  I  'm  carried  out  of  it  for  good 
and  all.  And  I  'm  not  going  to  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of 
a  talk  for  the  sake  of  an  extra  day  or  two !  .  .  ." 

"Wheesht,  Uncle  Matthew!"  John  begged. 

' '  Why,  son,  what 's  there  to  cry  about  ?  I  'm  not  af  eard 
to  die.  No  MacDermott  was  ever  af  eard  to  die,  and  /  won 't 
be  the  first  to  give  in.  Oh,  dear,  no ! " 

' '  But  you  '11  get  better,  Uncle  Matthew,  you  will,  if  you  '11 
only  take  care  of  yourself !  .  .  . " 

"Ah,  quit  blethering  John.  I  won't  get  better!  .  .  . 
What  were  we  saying  ?  Something  about  your  ma !  .  .  . " 

' '  Yes.     Her  calling  you  '  Matt '  1 " 

"Oh,  aye.  You'd  be  surprised,  mebbe,  to  hear  that  your 
Uncle  William  and  me  both  had  a  notion  of  her  before  your 
da  stepped  in  and  took  her  from  us?  We  had  no  chance 
against  him.  That  man  could  have  lifted  a  queen  from  a 
king's  bed!  ..." 


96  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"You  ought  not  to  be  talking  so  much.,  Uncle  Matthew!" 

' '  Ah,  let  me  talk,  John.  It 's  the  only  comfort  I  have,  and 
I  '11  get  all  the  rest  I  want  by  and  bye.  Was  it  a  girl  kept 
you  late  the  night  ? ' ' 

"How  did  you  know,  Uncle  Matthew?" 

"How  did  I  know!"  Uncle  Matthew  said  with  raillery. 
' '  How  would  anyone  know  anything  but  by  using  the  bit  of 
wit  the  Almighty  God's  put  in  his  head.  What  is  it  makes 
any  lad  lose  his  train  and  walk  miles  in  the  dark?  It's 
either  women  or  drink  .  .  .  and  you're  no  drinker,  John. 
Tell  me  about  her.  I  'd  like  to  be  the  first  to  know ! ' ' 

' '  I  only  met  her  the  day !  .  .  . " 

"Aye?" 

' '  I  hardly  know  her  yet  .  .  .  but  she 's  lovely ! ' ' 

"Goon  .  .  .  goon!" 

"I  took  her  to  the  theatre  with  me  to  see  Julius  Ccesar 
and  then  I  left  her  home.  She  lives  up  near  the  Lagan  .  .  . 
out  Stranmillis  way !  .  .  . " 

"I  know  it  well,"  said  Uncle  Matthew.  "Is  she  a  fair 
girl  or  a  dark  girl  ? ' ' 

' '  She  has  the  loveliest  golden  hair  you  ever  clapped  your 
eyes  on.  It  was  that  made  me  fall  in  love  with  her !  .  .  . " 

"You're  in  love  with  her  then?  You're  not  just  going 
with  her?" 

"Of  course  I 'm  in  love  with  her.  I  never  was  in  the  habit 
of  just  going  with  girls.  That's  all  right,  mebbe,  for  Willie 
Logan,  but  I  'm  not  fond  of  it, ' '  said  John  indignantly. 

"You  fell  in  love  with  her  in  a  terrible  great  hurry," 
Uncle  Matthew  exclaimed. 

"Aye,"  said  John  laughing.  "It  was  queer  and  comic 
the  way  I  fell  in  love  with  her,  for  I  had  no  notion  of  such 
a  thing  when  I  went  in  the  shop  to  have  my  tea.  She 's  in  a 
restaurant  off  High  Street.  I'd  been  to  the  Royal  to  see 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  I  was  full  of  the  play  and  just  wan- 
dering about,  not  thinking  of  what  I  was  doing,  when  all  of 
a  sudden  I  saw  this  place  foment  my  eyes,  and  I  just  went 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  97 

in,  and  she  was  there  by  her  lone.  The  woman  that  keeps 
the  place  had  gone  home  with  a  sore  head,  and  left  her  to 
look  after  it!" 

"What's  her  name?" 

"Maggie  Carmichael.  It's  a  nice  name.  They  don't  do 
much  trade  on  a  Saturday,  and  her  and  me  were  alone  in 
the  shop  by  ourselves  so  I  asked  her  to  have  tea  with  me, 
and  then  I  asked  her  to  go  to  the  Royal,  and  she  agreed  after 
a  while,  and  when  it  was  over,  I  took  her  home,  and  that's 
why  I  missed  the  train  and  had  to  tramp  it  the  whole  way 
home.  She's  older  nor  I  am.  She  says  she's  twenty-two. 
She  was  codding  me  for  never  having  kissed  any  other  girl 
but  her!  .  .  ." 

"You  got  that  length,  did  you?" 

"Aye,"  said  John  in  confusion. 

' '  You  're  like  your  da.  Take  what  you  want,  the  minute 
you  want  it.  She  '11  think  you  're  in  earnest,  John ! ' ' 

"I  am  in  earnest.  I  couldn't  be  any  other  way.  How 
could  a  man  feel  about  a  woman,  the  way  I  feel  about  her, 
and  not  be  in  earnest?" 

"As  easy  as  winking,"  said  Uncle  Matthew.  "You'll 
mebbe  be  in  love  a  hundred  times  before  you  marry,  and 
every  time  you  '11  think  it 's  the  right  one  at  last.  There 's  no 
law  in  love,  John.  You  can't  say  about  it,  that  you've  got 
to  know  a  woman  well  before  you're  safe  in  marrying  her, 
nor  you  can't  just  shut  your  eyes  and  grab  hold  of  the  first 
one  that  comes  to  your  hand.  There's  no  law,  John  .  .  . 
none  at  all.  It's  an  adventure,  love.  That's  what  it  is. 
You  don't  know  what  lies  at  the  end  of  your  journey  .  .  . 
and  you  can't  know  .  .  .  and  mebbe  when  you  reach  the 
end,  you  don't  know.  You  just  have  to  take  your  chance, 
and  trust  to  God  it'll  be  all  right!  Is  she  in  love  with 
you?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  suppose  so.  She  made  fun  of 
me,  so  I  suppose  she  can't  be.  But  she  said  she  liked  me." 

"Making  fun  of  you  is  nothing  to  go  by.     Some  women 


98  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

would  make  fun  of  God  Almighty,  and  think  no  harm  of  it. 
You'll  soon  know  whether  she's  in  love  with  you  or  not, 
my  son ! ' ' 

' '  How  will  I,  Uncle  Matthew  ? ' ' 

"When  she  begins  to  treat  you  as  if  you  were  her  prop- 
erty. That 's  a  sure  and  certain  sign.  The  minute  a  woman 
looks  at  a  man  as  much  as  to  say,  'That  fellow  belongs  to 
me,'  she's  in  love  with  him,  as  sure  as  death.  Anyway, 
she 's  going  to  marry  him !  Boys-a-boys,  John,  but  you  're 
the  lucky  lad  with  all  your  youth  and  health  in  front  of  you, 
and  you  setting  out  in  the  world.  Many's  the  time  I've 
longed  at  nights  to  be  lying  snug  and  comfortable  and  quiet 
in  a  woman's  arms,  but  I  never  had  that  pleasure.  What- 
ever you  do,  John,  don't  die  an  unmarried  man  like  your 
Uncle  William  and  me.  It 's  better  to  live  with  a  cross  sour- 
natured  woman  nor  it  is  to  live  with  no  woman  at  all ;  for 
even  the  worst  woman  in  the  world  has  given  a  wee  while  of 
happiness  to  her  man,  and  he  always  has  that  in  his  mind 
to  comfort  him  however  bad  she  turns  out  after.  And  if  she 
is  bad,  sure  you  can  run  away  from  her ! ' ' 

' '  Run  away  from  her !  You  'd  never  advocate  the  like  of 
that,  Uncle  Matthew?" 

"I  would.  I'm  a  dying  man,  John,  and  mebbe  I'll  be 
dead  by  the  morrow 's  morn,  so  you  may  be  sure  I  'm  saying 
things  now  that  I  mean  with  all  my  heart,  for  no  man  wants 
to  go  before  his  God  with  lies  on  his  lips.  And  I  tell  you 
now,  boy,  that  if  a  man  and  woman  are  not  happy  together, 
they  ought  to  separate  and  go  away  from  each  other  as  far  as 
they  can  get,  no  matter  what  the  cost  is.  Them's  my  solemn 
words,  John.  I  'd  like  well  to  see  this  girl  you  're  after,  but 
I'll  mebbe  not  be  able.  No  matter  for  that.  Pay  heed  to 
me  now,  for  fear  I  don't  get  the  opportunity  to  say  it  to 
you  again.  Whatever  adventures  you  set  out  on,  never  for- 
get they're  only  adventures,  and  if  one  turns  out  to  be  bad, 
another '11  mebbe  turn  out  to  be  good.  Don't  be  like  me, 
don 't  let  one  thing  affect  your  life  for  ever !  .  .  . "  He  lay 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  99 

back  on  his  pillow  for  a  few  moments  and  did  not  speak. 
John  waited  a  little  while,  and  then  he  leant  forward. 
' '  Will  I  fetch  my  ma  f "  he  asked. 

Uncle  Matthew  shook  his  head  and  waved  feebly  with  his 
hand,  and  John  sat  back  again  in  his  chair. 

"Life's  just  balancing  one  adventure  against  another," 
Uncle  Matthew  said  at  last,  without  raising  his  head  from 
the  pillow.  "The  good  against  the  bad.  And  the  happy 
man  is  him  that  can  set  off  a  lot  of  good  adventures  against 
bad  ones,  and  have  a  balance  of  good  ones  in  his  favour. 
But  it  takes  courage  to  have  a  lot,  John.  The  Jenny-joes  of 
the  world  never  try  again  after  the  first  bad  one.  I  ...  I 
was  staggered  that  time  ...  I  ...  I  never  got  my  foot- 
hold again.  The  balance  is  against  me,  John !  ..." 

Mrs.  MacDermott  came  into  the  room. 

"It's  time  you  went  to  your  bed,  son,"  she  said,  "and 
your  Uncle '11  want  to  get  to  sleep,  mebbe.  Are  you  all 
right,  Matt?" 

"  I  'm  nicely,  thank  you,  Hannah ! ' ' 

John  got  up  from  his  seat  and  said  ' '  Good-night ! "  to  his 
Uncle. 

' '  Good-night,  John.     Mind  well  what  I  've  said  to  you ! ' ' 

"I  will,  Uncle  Matthew!" 

' '  Good-night,  son,  dear ! ' '  said  Uncle  Matthew,  smiling  at 
him. 

iii 

In  the  morning,  Uncle  Matthew  was  better  than  he  had 
been  during  the  night,  and  Dr.  Dobbs,  when  he  called  to  see 
him,  thought  that  he  would  live  for  several  weeks  more. 
John  went  down  to  the  kitchen  from  his  Uncle 's  room,  happy 
at  the  thought  that  his  Uncle  might  recover  in  spite  of  the 
doctor's  statement  that  death  was  inevitable  within  a  short 
time.  Doctors,  he  told  himself,  had  made  many  mistakes, 
and  perhaps  Dr.  Dobbs  was  making  a  mistake  about  Uncle 
Matthew. 


100  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

He  had  lain  late,  heavy  with  fatigue,  for  Mrs.  MacDer- 
mott  had  not  called  him  at  his  usual  hour  and  so  the  morn- 
ing was  well  advanced  when  he  came  down. 

' '  There 's  a  letter  for  you, ' '  said  Uncle  William,  pointing 
to  the  mantel-shelf,  where  a  foolscap  envelope  rested  against 
the  clock.  ' '  It  '11  be  about  the  story,  I  'm  thinking ! ' ' 

John  took  the  letter  in  his  trembling  fingers  and  tore  it 
open. 

''They've  sent  it  back,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"There'll  be  a  note  with  it,"  Uncle  William  murmured. 

"Yes!  ..."  He  straightened  out  the  printed  note  and 
read  it.  ' '  They  've  declined  it, ' '  he  said. 

"They've  what?"  Uncle  William  exclaimed,  taking  the 
printed  slip  from  John's  hands.  He  read  the  note  of  rejec- 
tion through  several  times. 

"What  does  it  say?"  Mrs.  MacDermott  asked. 

"  It 's  a  queer  kind  of  a  note,  this ! ' '  said  Uncle  William. 
"You'd  think  the  man  was  breaking  his  heart  at  the  idea  of 
not  printing  the  story.  He  doesn't  say  anything  about  it, 
whether  it 's  good  or  bad.  He  just  thanks  John  for  sending 
it  to  him  and  says  he 's  sorry  he  can 't  accept  it.  If  he 's  so 
sorry  as  all  that,  why  the  hell  doesn  't  he  print  it ! " 

"William!"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott  sharply.  "This  is 
Sunday!" 

' '  Well,  dear  knows  I  don 't  want  to  desecrate  God 's  Day, ' ' 
Uncle  William  answered,  accepting  the  rebuke,  ' '  but  that  is 
a  lamentable  letter  to  get,  I  must  say ! ' ' 

Mrs.  MaeDermott  held  her  hand  out  for  the  letter. 
' '  Give  it  to  me, ' '  she  said,  and  she  took  it  from  Uncle  Wil- 
liam. 

"This  is  his  way  of  saying  your  story's  no  good,  John," 
she  said,  when  she  had  read  through  the  note.  "No  man 
would  refuse  a  thing  if  he  thought  it  was  worth  printing!" 

Her  words  hurt  John  very  sorely.  He  looked  at  her,  but 
he  did  not  speak,  and  then,  after  a  moment  or  two,  he  turned 
away. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  101 

"Now,  now,  that's  not  right  at  all,"  Uncle  William  said 
comfortingly.  "There  might  be  a  thousand  things  to  pre- 
vent the  man  from  printing  the  story.  Mebbe  he  doesn't 
know  a  good  story  when  he  sees  it.  Sure,  half  these  papers 
nowadays  print  stories  that  would  turn  a  child's  stomach, 
and  a  thing's  not  bad  just  because  one  paper  won't  take  it. 
There's  other  magazines  besides  Blackwood's,  John,  as  good, 
too,  and  mebbe  better!"  He  went  over  to  his  nephew  and 
put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder.  "There,  there,  now, 
don 't  let  this  upset  you !  Your  Uncle  Matthew  was  telling 
me  the  other  day  that  some  of  the  greatest  writers  in  the 
world  had  their  best  stories  refused  time  after  time.  Don't 
lose  heart  over  a  thing  like  that !" 

' '  I  haven 't  lost  heart,  Uncle  William.  I  daresay  it  isn  't 
as  good  as  I  thought  it  was,  but  I'll  improve.  It  wasn't  to 
be  expected  I  'd  succeed  the  first  time ! ' ' 

' '  That 's  the  spirit,  boy.     That 's  the  spirit ! ' ' 

"Only  I'm  disappointed  all  the  same.  It's  likely  I  don't 
know  enough  yet ! ' ' 

"Oh,  that's  very  likely,"  said  Uncle  William.  "You're 
only  a  young  fellow  yet,  you  know!" 

"Mebbe  that  story  of  mine  is  full  of  ignorant  mistakes  I 
wouldn't  have  made  if  I'd  been  about  the  world  a  bit  and 
seen  more ! ' ' 

"  I  daresay  you 're  right !     I  daresay  you 're  right !  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  MacDermott  came  between  them.  "What  are  you 
leading  up  to?"  she  demanded. 

' '  I  must  travel  a  bit  before  I  start  writing  things, ' '  John 
answered.  "I  must  know  more  and  see  more.  My  Uncle 
Matthew 's  right.  You  have  to  go  out  into  the  world  to  get 
adventure  and  romance!  ..." 

' '  Can 't  you  get  all  the  adventure  and  romance  you  need 
in  this  place,  and  not  go  tramping  among  strangers  and  for- 
eigners for  it  ? "  Mrs.  MacDermott  retorted  angrily. 

"How  can  I  get  adventure  and  romance  in  a  place  where 
I  know  everybody?"  John  ^ejoined. 


102  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Are  you  proposing  to  leave  home,  John?"  Uncle  Wil- 
liam asked. 

"Aye !  For  a  while  anyway, ' '  John  answered.  ' ' I '11  go 
to  London !  .  .  . " 

"You'll  not  go  to  no  London,"  Mrs.  MacDermott  re- 
torted, "and  your  Uncle  Matthew  lying  on  his  death- 
bed! ..  ." 

"I'm  not  proposing  to  go  this  minute,  ma !  .  .  . " 

"You'll  not  go  at  all,"  she  insisted. 

"I  will!" 

"You  will  not,  I  tell  you.  What  would  a  lump  of  a  lad 
like  you  do  in  a  place  of  that  sort,  where  there 's  temptation 
and  sin  at  every  corner?  Doesn't  everyone  know  that  the 
Devil 's  roaming  up  and  down  the  streets  of  London  day  and 
night,  luring  young  men  to  their  ruin  ?  There 's  bad  women 
in  London !  .  .  . " 

' '  There 's  bad  women  everywhere, ' '  John  replied.  ' '  You 
don 't  need  to  be  your  age  to  know  that ! ' ' 

She  listened  angrily  while  John  explained  his  point  of 
view  to  his  Uncle  William.  Travel  and  new  experiences 
were  necessary  to  the  development  of  his  mind. 

"Don't  you  go  up  to  Belfast  every  week?"  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dermott interrupted. 

' '  I  was  in  Belfast  yesterday, ' '  John  retorted,  ' '  but  there 
wasn't  a  thing  happened  to  me,  romantic  or  anything 
else !  .  .  . "  He  stopped  abruptly,  smitten  by  the  recollec- 
tion of  his  meeting  with  Maggie  Carmichael.  After  all, 
that  was  a  romantic  adventure !  Most  strange  that  he  had 
not  thought  of  his  love  affair  in  that  way  before!  Of 
course,  it  was  a  romantic  adventure!  He  had  walked 
straight  out  of  a  dull  street,  you  might  say,  into  an  en- 
chanted cafe  .  .  .  and  had  found  Maggie  in  captivity,  wait- 
ing for  him  to  deliver  her  from  it.  She  had  been  lonely 
.  .  .  and  he  had  come  to  comfort  her.  He  had  taken  her 
from  that  dull,  cheerless  .  .  .  prison  .  .  .  you  could  call  it 
that !  .  .  .  and  had  taken  her  to  a  pleasant  place  and  made 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  103 

love  to  her !  Oh,  but  of  course  it  was  a  romantic  adventure, 
with  love  and  a  beautiful  golden-haired  girl  at  the  end  of  it. 
And  here  he  was,  moping  over  the  misadventure  of  a  man- 
uscript and  talking  of  travel  in  distant  places  in  search  of 
exciting  experiences  as  if  he  had  not  already  had  the  most 
thrilling  and  wonderful  adventure  that  is  possible  to  a  man ! 
Why,  if  he  were  to  leave  Ballyards  and  go  to  London,  he 
would  lose  Maggie  .  .  .  would  not  see  her  again!  .  .  .  By 
the  Holy  O,  his  mother  was  right  after  all !  Women  were 
right  sometimes !  There  was  plenty  of  romance  and  adven- 
ture lying  at  your  hand,  if  you  only  took  the  trouble  to 
look  for  it.  Mebbe  .  .  .  mebbe  a  thing  was  romantic  or  not 
romantic,  just  according  to  the  way  you  looked  at  it.  One 
man  could  see  romance  in  a  grocer's  shop,  and  another  man 
could  not  see  romance  anywhere  but  in  places  where  he  had 
never  been !  .  .  . 

' '  Mebbe  you  're  right,  ma, ' '  he  said. 

Mrs.   MacDermott   looked   suspiciously   at   him.     "You 
changed  your  mind  very  quick,"  she  said. 

' '  I  always  change  my  mind  quick, ' '  he  replied. 

They  heard  the  noise  of  tapping  overhead. 

"That's  your  Uncle  Matthew,"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott, 
rising  from  her  chair. 

"I'll  go,"  John  exclaimed  hastily.     "It's  mebbe  me  he 
wants!" 

He  ran  quickly  up  the  stairs  and  entered  his  Uncle's 
room. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Matthew?"  he  said. 

"I  heard  you  all  talking  together,"  Uncle  Matthew  an- 
swered.    ' '  What 's  happened  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  nothing!     My  story's  been  refused.     That's  all." 

Uncle    Matthew   put   out   his   hand   and   took   hold   of 
John's.     "Are  you  very  disappointed?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  am.     I  made  sure  they'd  take  it!" 

"There  om'ht  to  have  been  a  woman  in  it.     You  know, 
John,  I  told  you  that.     There  was  no  love  in  that  story,  and 


104  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

people  like  to  read  about  love.  That's  natural.  Sure,  it's 
the  beginning  of  everything!" 

' '  I  didn  't  know  anything  about  it  then,  Uncle !  .  .  . " 

' '  No,  but  you  do  now  ...  a  wee  bit  ...  and  you  might 
have  imagined  it.  You  'd  never  be  your  father 's  son,  if  you 
hadn't  a  heart  brimful  of  love.  What  else  were  you  talk- 
ing about  ? ' ' 

John  told  his  Uncle  of  his  proposal  to  go  to  London  in 
search  of  experience. 

"Aye,  you'll  have  to  do  that  some  day,"  his  Uncle  re- 
plied, "but  there's  no  hurry  yet  awhile.  You'd  better  fin- 
ish your  schooling  first,  and  you  could  go  on  writing  here 
'til  you  get  more  mastery  of  it.  You  might  try  to  write  a 
book,  and  then  when  it's  done,  you  could  go  to  London  or 
somewhere.  I'd  be  sorry  if  you  went  just  now!  ..." 

' '  I  'm  not  meaning  to  go  yet,  Uncle ! ' ' 

"Very  good,  son.  I'd  like  you  to  be  here  when  I  ... 
when!  ..." 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but  the  pressure  of  his 
hand  on  John's  increased. 

"Eh,  John?  "he  said. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Matthew!"  John  replied.  He  quickly 
changed  the  conversation.  "You're  looking  a  lot  better," 
he  said. 

Uncle  Matthew  smiled.  ' '  Oh,  aye, ' '  he  replied,  ' '  I  feel  a 
lot  better,  too.  I'll  mebbe  beat  the  doctor  yet.  He  thinks 
I'm  done  for,  but  mebbe  I'll  teach  him  different !" 

"You  will,  indeed.  And  why  wouldn't  you?  You're 
young  yet ! ' ' 

Uncle  Matthew  did  not  reply  to  this.  He  turned  on  his 
pillow  and  glanced  towards  the  dressing-table. 

' '  Are  you  looking  for  anything  ? ' '  John  asked. 

"Is  there  a  book  there?" 

"No,"  John  said.     "Do  you  want  one?" 

"Your  ma  read  a  wee  bit  to  me  in  the  night,  after  you 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  105 

went  to  bed.  I  thought  mebbe  you'd  read  a  wee  bit  more 
to  me.  Willie  Reilly,  it  was." 

"I'll  get  it  for  you,"  John  replied,  going  to  the  door. 

He  called  to  his  mother,  and  she  told  him  that  she  had 
brought  the  book  downstairs  with  her. 

"Wait  a  minute  and  I'll  fetch  it,"  she  said. 

She  returned  in  a  moment  or  two,  carrying  the  book  in 
her  hand,  and  mounted  half-way  up  the  staircase  to  meet 
him.  She  pointed  to  a  place  in  the  book.  "I  read  up  to 
there  to  him  in  the  night,"  she  said.  John  looked  at  his 
mother,  as  he  took  the  book  from  her  hands,  and  saw  how 
tired  she  looked. 

"Did  you  not  get  any  sleep  at  all,  ma?"  he  asked  with 
concern. 

"I'm  all  right,  son,"  she  answered. 

"No,  you're  not,"  he  insisted.  "You  11  just  go  to  your 
bed  this  minute  and  lie  down  for  a  while !  .  .  ." 

"And  the  dinner  to  cook  and  all,"  she  interrupted. 

""Well,  after  your  dinner  then.  You'll  lie  down  the 
whole  afternoon.  Uncle  William  and  me '11  get  the  tea 
ready,  and  we'll  take  it  in  turns  to  look  after  Uncle 
Matthew!" 

She  stood  on  the  step  beneath  him,  looking  at  him  with 
dark,  tired  eyes,  and  then  she  put  out  her  hand  and  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder.  "You'll  not  leave  me,  John?"  she 
pleaded. 

' '  No,  ma, ' '  he  answered.     ' '  Not  for  a  long  while  yet ! ' ' 

She  turned  away  from  him  and  went  down  the  stairs 
again. 

John  returned  to  his  Uncle's  room,  and  sat  down  by  the 
side  of  the  bed.  He  opened  the  book  and  began  to  read 
of  Willie  Reilly  and  his  Colleen  Bawn.  Now  and  then  he 
glanced  at  his  Uncle  and  wondered  at  the  childlike  and 
innocent  look  on  his  face.  There  was  a  strange  simplicity 
in  his  eyes  .  .  .  not  the  simplicity  of  those  who  have  not 


106  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

got  understanding,  but  of  those  who  have  a  deep  and  un- 
changeable knowledge  that  is  very  different  from  the  knowl- 
edge of  other  men;  and  once  again  John  assured  himself 
that  while  Uncle  Matthew's  behaviour  might  be  "quare" 
when  compared  with  that  of  other  people,  yet  it  was  not 
foolish  behaviour  nor  the  behaviour  of  the  feeble-minded: 
it  was  the  conduct  of  a  man  who  responded  immediately 
to  simple  and  honest  emotions,  who  did  not  stop  to  con- 
sider questions  of  discretion  or  interest,  but  did  the  thing 
which  seemed  to  him  to  be  right. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Uncle  Matthew?"  he  said 
suddenly,  putting  down  the  book,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that 
his  Uncle  was  no  longer  listening. 

"I  was  thinking  I  wouldn't  have  missed  my  life  for  the 
wide  world ! ' '  Uncle  Matthew  replied. 

''After  everything?"  John  asked. 

"Aye,  in  spite  of  everything,"  said  Uncle  Matthew. 
' '  There 's  great  value  in  life  .  .  .  great  value ! ' ' 

John  picked  up  the  book  again,  but  he  did  not  begin  to 
read,  nor  did  Uncle  Matthew  show  any  signs  that  he 
wished  the  reading  to  be  resumed. 

•  ' '  Our  minds  go  this  way  and  that  way, ' '  Uncle  Matthew 
went  on,  "and  some  of  us  are  not  happy  'til  we're  away 
here  and  there !  .  .  . " 

"You  were  always  wanting  to  be  off  after  adventures 
yourself,  Uncle  Matthew ! ' ' 

"Aye,  John,  I  was,  and  I  never  went.  I've  oftentimes 
thought  little  of  myself  for  that,  but  I'm  wondering  now, 
lying  here,  whether  it  wasn't  a  great  adventure  to  stop  at 
home.  I  don't  know!  I  don't  know!  But  I'll  know  in  a 
wee  while !  John ! ' ' 

"Yes,  Uncle!" 

' '  I  wouldn  't  change  places  with  the  King  of  England,  at 
this  minute,  not  for  all  the  money  in  the  mint  and  my 
weight  in  gold ! ' ' 

"Why,  Uncle  Matthew?" 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  107 

' '  Do  you  know  why  ?  Because  in  a  wee  while,  I  '11  know 
all  there  is  to  know,  and  he  '11  be  left  here  knowing  no  more 
nor  the  rest  of  you.  God  is  good,  John.  He  shares  out  his 
knowledge  without  favour  to  anyone.  The  like  of  us '11 
know  as  much  in  the  next  world  as  the  like  of  them!  .  ." 


IV 

"When  the  sharper  anxieties  concerning  Uncle  Matthew 
had  subsided,  John's  mind  was  filled  with  thoughts  of 
Maggie  Carmichael.  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  impossible  that 
any  seven  days  in  the  history  of  the  world  had  been  so  long 
in  passing  as  the  seven  days  which  separated  him  from  his 
next  meeting  with  her.  His  work  at  the  Ballyards  Na- 
tional School  lost  any  interest  it  ever  had  for  him :  the  pu- 
pils seemed  to  be  at  once  the  stupidest  and  laziest  and  most 
aggravating  children  on  earth.  Lizzie  Turley  completely 
lost  her  power  to  add  two  and  one  together  and  make  three 
of  them.  Strive  as  he  might,  he  could  not  make  her  com- 
prehend or  remember  that  two  and  one,  when  added  to- 
gether, did  not  amount  to  five.  There  was  even  a  dreadful 
day  when  she  lost  her  power  to  subtract.  .  .  .  Miss  Gebbie, 
the  teacher  to  whom  he  was  most  often  monitor,  had  always 
had  hard,  uncouth  manners,  but  they  became  almost  intol- 
erable before  the  seven  days  had  passed  by  ...  and  it 
seemed  certain  that  there  must  be  a  crisis  in  her  life  and  in 
his  before  the  clock  struck  three  on  Friday  afternoon !  If 
she  complained  again,  he  said  to  himself,  about  the  way  in 
which  he  marked  the  children's  exercise  books,  he  would 
tell  her  in  very  plain  language  what  he  thought  of  her  and 
her  big  bamboo-cane.  When  she  slapped  the  children,  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  went  down  and  her  large  lips  tight- 
ened and  a  cruel  glint  came  into  her  eyes!  .  .  . 

It  was  only  during  the  reading  half-hour  that  his  mind 
was  at  ease  in  school  that  week,  for  then  he  could  let  his 
thoughts  roam  from  Ballyards  to  Belfast,  and  fill  his  eyes 


108  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

with  visions  of  Maggie.  The  droning  voices  of  the  children, 
reading  "Jack  has  got  a  cart  and  can  draw  sand  and  clay 
in  it, ' '  were  almost  soothing,  and  it  was  sufficient  for  super- 
vision, if  now  and  then,  he  would  call  out,  ' '  Next ! ' '  The 
child  who  was  reading  would  instantly  stop,  and  the  child 
next  to  her  would  instantly  begin.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  the  clearest  impressions  of 
Maggie  Carmichael,  and  yet  had  also  the  vaguest  impres- 
sions of  her.  He  remembered  very  distinctly  that  she  had 
bright,  laughing  eyes,  and  that  her  hair  was  fair,  and  that 
she  had  pretty  teeth:  white  and  even.  He  had  often  read 
in  books  of  the  beauty  of  a  woman 's  teeth,  but  he  had  never 
paid  much  attention  to  them.  After  all,  what  was  the  pur- 
pose of  teeth?  To  bite.  It  was  ridiculous,  he  had  told 
himself,  to  talk  and  write  of  beauty  in  teeth  when  all  that 
mattered  was  whether  they  could  bite  well  or  not.  .  .  .  But 
now,  remembering  the  beauty  of  Maggie  Carmichael's 
mouth,  he  saw  that  the  writers  had  done  well  when  they 
insisted  on  the  beauty  of  teeth.  Any  sort  of  a  good  tooth 
would  do  for  biting  and  chewing,  but  there  was  something 
more  than  that  to  be  said  for  good,  white,  even  teeth.  If 
teeth  were  of  no  value  otherwise  than  for  biting  and  chew- 
ing, false  teeth  were  better  than  natural  teeth!  .  .  .  And 
false  teeth  were  so  hideous  to  look  at;  so  smug,  so  self- 
conscious.  Aggie  Logan  had  false  teeth.  So  had  Teeshie 
McBratney  and  Sadie  Cochrane.  Things  with  pale 
gums!  .  .  . 

He  had  wanted  to  kiss  Maggie  Carmichael's  teeth,  so 
beautiful  were  they.  Just  her  teeth.  It  had  been  splendid 
to  kiss  her  lips,  but  then  one  always  kissed  lips.  Men,  ac- 
cording to  the  books,  even  kissed  hair  and  ears  and  eyes. 
He  had  read  recently  of  a  man  who  kissed  a  woman  on  the 
neck,  just  behind  the  ear;  and  at  the  time  he  had  thought 
that  this  was  a  very  queer  thing  to  do.  Love,  he  supposed, 
was  responsible  for  a  thing  like  that.  He  could  not  account 
for  it  in  any  other  way.  He  understood  now,  of  course. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  109 

When  a  man  loved  a  woman,  every  part  of  her  was  very 
dear  and  beautiful  to  him,  and  to  kiss  her  neck  just  behind 
the  ear  was  as  exquisite  as  to  kiss  her  lips.  No  one,  in  any 
of  the  books  he  had  read,  had  wished  to  kiss  a  woman's  teeth. 
There  were  still  hidden  joys  in  kissing  .  .  .  and  he  had 
discovered  one  of  them.  He  would  kiss  Maggie's  teeth  on 
Saturday.  He  would  kiss  her  lips,  too,  of  course,  and  her 
hair  and  her  eyes  and  ears  and  the  part  of  her  neck  that 
was  just  behind  her  ear,  but  most  of  all  he  would  kiss  her 
teeth!  .  .  . 

He  thought  that  it  was  very  strange  that  he  should  think 
so  ardently  of  kissing  Maggie.  He  could  have  kissed  Aggie 
Logan  dozens  of  times,  but  he  had  never  had  the  slightest 
desire  to  kiss  her.  He  remembered  how  foolish  he  had 
thought  her  that  night  at  the  soiree  when  someone  proposed 
that  they  should  play  Postman's  Knock.  Aggie  Logan  had 
called  him  out  to  the  lobby.  There  was  a  letter  for  him, 
she  said,  with  three  stamps  on  it.  Three  stamps!  Did 
anyone  ever  hear  the  like  of  that  ?  And  he  was  to  go  into 
the  lobby  and  give  her  three  kisses,  one  after  the  other  .  .  . 
peck,  peck,  peck  .  .  .  and  then  it  would  be  his  turn  to  call 
for  someone,  and  Aggie  would  expect  him  to  call  for  her! 
.  .  .  Willie  Logan  had  called  for  a  girl.  He  had  a  letter 
for  her  with  fifty  stamps  on  it.  ...  A  great  roar  of 
laughter  had  gone  up  from  the  others  when  they  heard  of 
the  amount  of  the  postage,  and  Willie  was  thought  to  be  a 
daring,  desperate  fellow  .  .  .  until  the  superintendent  of 
the  Sunday  School  said  that  there  must  be  reason  in  all 
things  and  proposed  a  limit  of  three  stamps  on  each  letter 
...  no  person  to  be  called  for  more  than  twice  in  suc- 
cession. Willie,  boisterous  and  very  amorous,  whispered 
to  John  that  he  did  not  care  what  limit  they  made  ...  no 
one  could  tell  how  many  extra  stamps  you  put  on  your 
letter  out  in  the  lobby.  .  .  . 

John  had  not  answered  Aggie's  call.  He  had  contrived 
to  get  out  of  the  school-room  without  being  observed,  and 


110  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

Aggie  had  been  obliged  to  call  for  someone  else.  Kiss- 
ing! .  .  .  Kiss  her!  .  .  .  Three  stamps!  .  .  .  Peck,  peck, 
peck!  .  .  . 


Wednesday  dragged  itself  out  slowly  and  very  reluct- 
antly; Thursday  was  worse  than  Wednesday;  and  Friday 
was  only  saved  from  being  as  bad  as  Thursday  by  its  near- 
ness to  Saturday.  On  the  morrow,  he  would  see  Maggie 
again.  Many  times  during  the  week,  he  had  debated  with 
himself  as  to  whether  he  should  write  to  her  or  not,  but 
the  difficulty  of  knowing  what  to  say  to  her,  except  that 
he  loved  her  and  was  longing  for  the  advent  of  Saturday, 
prevented  him  from  doing  so.  In  any  case,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  write  to  her  without  questions  from  his  mother, 
and  if  Maggie  were  to  reply  to  him,  there  would  be  no  end 
to  the  talk  from  her.  After  all,  a  week  was  only  a  week. 
On  Monday,  a  week  had  seemed  to  be  an  interminable 
.period  of  time,  but  on  Friday,  it  had  resumed  the  normal 
aspect  of  a  week,  a  thing  with  a  definite  and  reachable 
end.  It  was  odd  to  observe  how,  as  the  week  drew  to  its 
close,  the  intolerable  things  became  tolerable.  Miss  Gebbie 
seemed  to  be  a  little  less  inhuman  on  Friday  than  she  had 
been  on  Monday,  and  Lizzie  Turley  marvellously  recovered 
her  power  to  add  two  and  one  together  and  get  the  correct 
result.  Beyond  all  doubt,  he  was  in  love.  There  could  not 
be  any  other  explanation  of  his  behaviour  and  his  peculiar 
impatience.  That  any  man  should  conduct  himself  as  he 
had  done  during  the  week  now  ending,  for  any  other  reason 
than  that  he  was  in  love,  was  impossible.  Why,  he  woke 
up  in  the  morning,  thinking  of  Maggie,  and  he  went  to 
sleep  at  night,  thinking  of  Maggie.  He  thought  of  her 
when  he  was  at  school,  and  he  thought  of  her  in  the  street, 
in  the  shop,  in  the  kitchen,  even  in  his  Uncle  Matthew's 
room.  When  it  was  his  turn  to  sit  by  Uncle  Matthew's 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  111 

side,  his  mind,  for  more  than  half  the  time,  was  in  Belfast 
with  Maggie.  He  had  read  more  than  a  hundred  pages  of 
Willie  Reilly  to  his  Uncle,  but  he  had  not  comprehended  one 
of  them.  He  had  been  thinking  exclusively  of  Maggie. 

He  wondered  whether  he  would  always  be  in  this  state  of 
absorption.  Other  people  fell  in  love,  as  he  knew,  but  they 
seemed  to  be  able  to  think  of  other  things  besides  their  love. 
Perhaps  they  were  not  so  much  in  love  as  he  was!  He 
began  to  see  difficulties  arising  from  this  great  devotion  of 
his  to  Maggie.  It  would  be  very  hard  to  concentrate  his 
mind  on  a  story  if  it  were  full  of  thoughts  of  her.  He 
would  probably  spoil  any  work  he  attempted  to  do,  because 
his  mind  would  not  be  on  it,  but  away  with  Maggie.  In 
none  of  the  books  he  had  read,  had  he  seen  any  account  of 
the  length  of  time  a  pair  of  lovers  took  in  which  to  get  used 
to  each  other  and  to  adjust  their  affections  to  the  ordinary 
needs  of  life.  He  would  never  cease  to  love  Maggie,  of 
course,  but  he  wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  his 
mind  would  become  capable  of  thinking  of  Maggie  and  of 
something  else  at  the  same  time  ...  or  even  of  thinking 
of  something  else  without  thinking  of  Maggie  at  all.  .  .  . 


VI 

Her  mother  had  looked  dubiously  at  him  when  he  talked 
of  going  to  Belfast  on  Saturday.  She  said  that  he  ought 
not  to  leave  home  while  his  Uncle  Matthew  was  so  ill,  but 
Dr.  Dobbs  had  given  a  more  optimistic  opinion  on  the  sick 
man's  condition,  and  so,  after  they  had  argued  over  the 
matter,  she  withdrew  her  objection.  Uncle  William  had 
insisted  that  John  ought  to  go  up  to  the  city  for  the  sake  of 
the  change.  The  lad  had  had  a  hard  week,  what  with  his 
school  work  and  his  writing  and  his  attention  to  Uncle 
Matthew,  and  the  change  would  be  good  for  him.  "Only 
don 't  miss  the  train  this  time, ' '  he  added  to  John. 


112  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

Maggie  met  him  outside  the  theatre.  He  had  not  long  to 
wait  for  her,  and  his  heart  thrilled  at  the  sight  of  her  as  she 
came  round  Arthur's  Corner. 

' '  So  you  have  come, ' '  she  said  to  him,  as  she  shook  hands 
with  him. 

' '  Did  you  think  I  wouldn  't  ? "  he  answered. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  replied,  "you  never  know  with  fellows! 
Some  of  them  makes  an  appointment  to  meet  you,  and 
you'd  think  from  the  way  they  talk  about  it  that  they  were 
dying  to  meet  you;  and  then  when  the  time  comes,  you 
might  stand  at  the  corner  'til  your  feet  were  frozen  to  the 
ground,  but  not  a  bit  of  them  would  turn  up.  I'd  never 
forgive  a  boy  that  treated  me  that  way ! ' ' 

"  I  'm  not  the  sort  that  treats  a  girl  that  way, ' '  said  John. 

"Oh,  indeed  you  could  break  your  word  as  well  as  the 
next!  Many's  a  time  I've  give  my  word  to  a  fellow  and 
broke  it  myself,  just  because  I  didn't  feel  like  keeping  it. 
But  it's  different  for  a  girl  nor  it  is  for  a  fellow.  There's 
no  harm  in  a  girl  disappointing  a  fellow !  I  hear  this  piece 
at  the  Royal  is  awfully  good  this  week.  It's  about  a  girl 
that  nearly  gets  torn  to  pieces  by  a  mad  lion.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  like  that  sort  of  piece  or  not.  It  seems 
terrible  silly,  and  it  would  be  awful  if  the  hero  come  on  a 
minute  or  two  late  and  the  girl  was  ate  up  foment  your 
eyes ! ' ' 

John  laughed.  "There's  not  much  danger  of  that,"  he 
replied. 

There  were  very  few  people  waiting  outside  the  Pit  Door, 
and  so  they  were  able  to  secure  good  seats  with  ease.  ' '  The 
best  of  coming  in  the  daytime, ' '  John  said,  ' '  is  you  have  a 
better  chance  of  the  front  row  than  you  have  at  night ! ' ' 

She  nodded  her  head.  "But  it's  better  at  night,"  she 
answered.  "A  piece  never  seems  real  to  me  in  the  day- 
light." 

"Where '11  we  go  to-night?"  he  said  to  her. 

"Oh,  I  can't  go  with  you  to-night  again,"  she  exclaimed, 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  113 

taking  a  chocolate  from  the  box  which  he  had  bought  for 
her. 

"Why?" 

"I  have  another  appointment!  ..." 

"Break  it,"  he  commanded. 

"I  couldn't  do  that!  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  could,"  he  insisted.  "You  told  me  your- 
self you'd  disappointed  fellows  many's  a  time!" 

"I  daresay  I  did,  but  I  can't  break  this  one,"  she  re- 
torted. 

Suspicion  entered  his  mind.  "Is  it  with  another  fel- 
low ? "  he  asked. 

"Ask  me  no  questions  and  I'll  tell  you  no  lies,"  she  said. 

"Is  it?  "he  demanded. 

"And  what  if  it  is?" 

' '  I  don 't  want  you  to  go  out  with  anybody  else  but  me ! " 

She  ate  another  chocolate.  "Have  one?"  she  said,  pass- 
ing the  box  to  him.  He  shook  his  head  moodily.  "Are 
you  going  to  do  what  I  ask  or  are  you  not  ? "  he  said. 

"Don't  be  childish,"  she  replied.  "I've  promised  a 
friend  to  go  to  a  concert  to-night,  and  I'll  have  to  go. 
That 'sail  about  it!" 

"Is  it  a  fellow?" 

' '  Mebbe  it  is  and  mebbe  it 's  not ! ' '  she  teased. 

' '  You  know  I  'm  in  love  with  you ! ' '  She  laughed  lightly, 
and  he  bent  his  head  closer  to  her.  "Listen,  Maggie,"  he 
went  on,  "I  know  I  only  met  you  for  the  first  time  last 
Saturday,  but  I'm  terrible  in  love  with  you.  Listen!  I 
want  to  marry  you,  Maggie!  ..." 

She  burst  out  laughing. 

"Don't  make  a  mock  of  me,"  he  pleaded. 

She  turned  to  look  at  him.  "What  age  are  you?"  she 
demanded. 

"I'm  near  nineteen,"  he  answered. 

"And  I'm  twenty-two,"  she  retorted.  "Twenty-two 
past,  I  am.  Four  years  older  nor  you !  .  .  . " 


114  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

' '  That  doesu  't  matter, ' '  he  insisted. 

"It  wouldn't  if  the  ages  was  the  other  way  round  .  .  . 
you  twenty-two  and  me  nineteen ! ' ' 

' '  It  doesn  't  matter  what  way  they  are.  It 's  not  age  that 
matters :  it 's  feeling ! ' ' 

"You'll  feel  different,  mebbe,  when  you're  a  bit  older. 
What  would  people  say  if  I  was  to  marry  you  now,  after 
meeting  you  a  couple  of  times,  and  you  four  years  younger 
nor  me  ? " 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  they'd  say,"  he  replied. 
' '  Sure,  people  are  always  saying  something ! ' ' 

She  ruminated  !  "I  like  going  out  with  you  well  enough, 
and  you're  a  queer,  nice  wee  fellow,  but  it's  foolish  talk 
to  be  talking  of  getting  married.  What  trade  are  you 
at?" 

"I'm  a  monitor,"  he  answered.  "I'm  in  my  last 
year!  ..." 

"You're  still  at  the  school,"  she  said. 

"  I  'm  a  monitor, ' '  he  replied,  insisting  on  his  status. 

"Och,  sure  that's  only  learning.  When  in  the  earthly 
world  would  you  be  able  to  keep  a  wife  ? ' ' 

"  I  'm  going  to  write  books !  .  .  . " 

"What  sort  of  books?" 

' '  Story  books, ' '  he  said. 

' '  Have  you  writ  any  yet  ? ' ' 

' '  No,  but  I  wrote  a  short  story  once ! ' ' 

She  looked  at  him  admiringly.  ' '  How  much  did  you  get 
for  it  ? "  she  asked. 

"I  didn't  get  anything  for  it,"  he  replied.  "They 
wouldn't  take  it!" 

She  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments.  Then  she  said, 
' '  Your  prospects  aren  't  very  bright ! ' ' 

' '  But  they  '11  get  brighter, ' '  he  said.  ' '  They  will.  I  tell 
you  they  will ! ' ' 

"When?"  she  asked. 

"Some  day,"  he  answered. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  115 

"Some  day  may  be  a  long  day  in  coming,"  she  went  on. 
"I  might  have  to  wait  a  good  while  before  you  were  able 
to  marry  me.  Five  or  six  years,  mebbe,  and  then  I'd  be 
getting  on  to  thirty,  John.  You'd  better  be  looking  out  for 
a  younger  girl  nor  me  ! " 

' '  I  don 't  want  anybody  else  but  you, ' '  he  replied. 

vii 

When  the  play  was  over,  they  walked  arm  in  arm  towards 
the  restaurant  where  she  was  employed.  "I  promised  Mrs. 
Bothwell  we'd  have  our  tea  there,"  Maggie  said  to  John. 
"It  put  her  in  a  sweet  temper,  the  thought  of  having  two 
customers  for  certain.  She'll  mebbe  give  up  that  place. 
It's  not  paying  her  well.  She  wasn't  going  to  give  me  the 
time  off  at  first,  but  I  told  you  were  my  cousin  up  from  the 
country  for  the  day !  .  .  . " 

"But  I'm  not  your  cousin,"  John  objected. 

"That  doesn't  matter.  Sure,  you  have  to  tell  a  wee  bit 
of  a  lie  now  and  again,  or  you'd  never  get  your  way  at  all. 
And  it  saves  bother  and  explaining!" 

They  crossed  High  Street  and  were  soon  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  leading  up  to  Bothwell's  Restaurant.  "Mind," 
said  Maggie  in  a  whisper,  "you're  my  cousin!" 

He  did  not  speak,  but  followed  her  up  the  stairs  and 
into  the  restaurant  where  she  introduced  him  to  a  plain, 
stoutly-built,  but  cheerless  woman  who  came  from  the  small 
room  into  the  large  one  as  they  entered  it.  There  was  one 
customer  in  the  room,  but  he  finished  his  tea  and  departed 
soon  after  Maggie  and  John  arrived.  In  a  little  while,  she 
and  he  were  eating  their  meal.  John  politely  asked  Mrs. 
Bothwell  to  join  them,  but  she  declined. 

She  sat  at  a  neighbouring  table  and  talked  to  them  of 
the  play. 

"I  don't  know  when  I  was  last  at  a  theatre,"  she  said, 
"and  I  don't  know  when  I'll  go  again.  I  always  say  to 


116  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

myself  when  I  come  away,  'Well,  that's  over  and  my 
money's  spent  and  what  satisfaction  have  I  got  for  it?' 
And  when  I  think  it  all  out,  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  any 
satisfaction.  You've  spent  your  money,  and  the  play's 
over,  and  that 's  all.  It  seems  a  poor  sort  of  return ! ' ' 

"You  might  say  that  about  anything,"  John  said.  "A 
football  match  or  ...  or  one  of  these  nice  wee  cookies  of 
yours ! ' ' 

"Oh,  indeed,  you  might,"  Mrs.  Bothwell  admitted. 
"Sure,  there's  no  pleasure  in  the  world  that's  lasting,  and 
mebbe  if  there  were  we  wouldn't  like  it.  You  pay  your 
good  money  for  a  thing,  and  you  have  it  a  wee  while,  and 
then  it's  all  over,  and  you  have  to  pay  more  money  for 
something  else.  Or  mebbe  you  have  it  a  long  while,  only 
you're  not  content  with  it.  That's  the  way  it  always  is. 
There's  very  little  satisfaction  to  be  got  out  of  anything. 
Look  at  the  Albert  Memorial!  That  looks  solid  enough, 
but  there's  people  says  it'll  tumble  to  the  ground  one  of 
these  days  with  the  running  water  that 's  beneath  it ! " 

Maggie  took  a  big  bite  from  a  cookie.  ' '  Oh,  now,  there 's 
satisfaction  in  everything,"  she  said,  "if  you  only  go  the 
right  way  about  getting  it  and  don't  expect  too  much.  I 
always  say  you  get  as  much  in  this  world  as  you're  able  to 
take  .  .  .  and  it's  true  enough.  I  know  I  take  all  in  the 
way  of  enjoyment  that  I  can  put  my  two  hands  on.  There's 
no  use  in  being  miserable,  and  it 's  nicer  to  be  happy  ! ' ' 

"You're  mebbe  right,"  said  Mrs.  Bothwell.  "But  you 
can't  just  be  miserable  or  happy  when  you  like.  I  can't 
anyway ! ' ' 

' '  You  should  try, ' '  said  Maggie. 

Mrs.  Bothwell  went  to  the  small  room  and  did  not  return. 
John  was  glad  that  her  dissatisfaction  with  the  universe 
did  not  make  her  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  Maggie  and  he 
were  content  enough  with  each  other's  company  and  did 
not  require  the  presence  of  a  third  party. 

He  leant  across  the  table  and  took  hold  of  one  of  Maggie 's 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  117 

hands.     "You've  not  answered  my  question  yet?"  lie  said. 

"What  question?"  she  said. 

"About  going  out  with  me,"  he  replied. 

"I'll  go  to  the  Royal  with  you  next  Saturday,"  she 
said. 

"Ah,  but  for  good!  I  mean  it  when  I  say  I  want  to 
marry  you  !  .  .  . " 

' '  You  're  an  awful  wee  fool, ' '  she  exclaimed,  drawing  her 
hand  from  his  and  slapping  him  playfully. 

"Fool!" 

"Yes.  I  thought  at  first  you  were  having  me  on,  but  I 
think  now  you're  only  a  wee  fool.  But  I  like  you  all  the 
same ! ' ' 

' '  Am  I  a  fool  for  loving  you  ? "  he  demanded. 

' '  Oh,  no,  not  for  that,  but  for  knowing  so  little ! ' ' 

' '  Marry  me,  Maggie, ' '  he  pleaded. 

"Wheesht,"  she  said,  "Mrs.  Bothwell  will  hear 
you!  .  .  ." 

' '  I  don 't  care  who  hears !  .  .  . " 

"But  I  do,"  she  interrupted.  "You're  an  awful  one  for 
not  caring.  You  've  said  that  more  nor  once  to-day ! ' '  She 
glanced  at  the  clock.  "I'll  have  to  be  going  soon,"  she 
said. 

"No,  not  yet  awhile!  ..." 

"But  I  will.     I'll  be  late  if  I  stop!  .  .  ." 

She  began  to  draw  on  her  gloves  as  she  spoke. 

' '  Well,  when  will  I  see  you  again  ? "  he  asked. 

"Next  Saturday  if  you  like!  ..." 

' '  Can  I  not  see  you  before  ?  I  could  come  up  to  Belfast 
on  Wednesday !  .  .  . " 

"  I  'm  engaged  on  Wednesday, ' '  she  said. 

"But!" 

"Och,  quit  butting,"  she  retorted.  "I'll  see  you  on 
Saturday  and  no  sooner.  Pay  Mrs.  Bothwell  and  come 
on!  .  ." 


118  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 


Vlll 

She  insisted  on  leaving  him  at  the  Junction,  and  he 
moodily  watched  her  climbing  into  a  tram.  She  waved  her 
hand  to  him  as  the  tram  drove  off,  and  he  waved  his  in 
reply.  And  then  she  was  gone,  and  he  had  a  sense  of  loss 
and  depression.  He  stared  gloomily  about  him.  What 
should  he  do  now  ?  He  might  go  to  the  Opera  House  or  to 
one  of  the  music-halls  or  he  might  just  walk  about  the 
streets.  .  .  . 

He  thought  of  what  Mrs.  Bothwell  had  said  earlier  in  the 
day.  "There's  very  little  satisfaction  in  anything!" 

"There's  a  lot  in  that,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I'll  go 
home,"  he  continued.  "There's  no  pleasure  in  mouching 
round  the  town  by  yourself ! ' ' 

He  got  into  a  tram  and  was  soon  at  the  railway  station. 
On  the  platform,  a  little  way  in  front  of  him,  he  saw  Willie 
Logan,  flushed  and  excited,  with  two  girls,  one  on  either 
side  of  him.  Willie  had  an  arm  round  each  girl's  waist. 

"That  fellow's  getting  plenty  of  fun  anyway,"  John 
said,  as  he  climbed  into  an  empty  carriage.  He  did  not 
wish  to  join  Willie's  party.  He  knew  too  well  what  Willie 
was  like:  a  noisy,  demonstrative  fellow,  indiscriminately 
amorous.  "Nearly  every  girl's  worth  kissing,"  Willie  had 
said  to  him  on  one  occasion.  "If  you  can't  get  your  bit  of 
fun  with  one  woman,  sure  you  can  get  it  with  another ! ' ' 

Willie,  in  the  carriage,  would  kiss  one  girl,  John  knew, 
and  then  would  turn  and  kiss  the  other,  "just  to  show 
there's  no  ill  will."  He  might  even  invite  John  to  kiss 
them  in  turn  ...  so  that  John  might  not  feel  uncomfort- 
able and  "out  of  it."  He  would  lie  back  in  the  carriage, 
his  big  face  flushed  and  his  eyes  bright  with  pleasure,  an 
arm  round  each  of  his  companions,  and  when  he  was  not 
kissing  them,  he  would  be  bawling  out  some  song,  or,  at 
stations,  hanging  half  out  of  the  window  to  chaff  the  porters^ 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  119 

and  the  station-master.  "Get  all  you  can,"  he  would  say, 
' '  and  do  without  the  rest ! ' ' 

But  John  was  not  a  promiscuist :  he  was  a  monopolist. 
He  put  the  whole  of  his  strength  into  his  love  for  one 
woman,  and  he  demanded  a  similar  singleness  of  devotion 
from  her.  His  mind  was  full  of  Maggie,  but  he  felt  that 
she  had  cast  him  out  of  her  mind  the  moment  that  the  tram 
bore  her  out  of  his  sight. 

"I'll  make  her  want  me,"  he  said,  tightening  his  fists. 
' '  I  '11  make  her  want  me  'til  she 's  heartsore  with  wanting ! ' ' 


THE  FIFTH  CHAPTER 


UNCLE  MATTHEW  died  three  days  later.  He  slipped  out 
of  life  without  ostentation  or  murmur.  ' '  The  MacDermotts 
are  not  af  eard  to  die, ' '  he  had  said  to  John  at  the  beginning 
of  his  illness,  and  in  that  spirit  he  had  died.  In  the  morn- 
ing, he  had  asked  Mrs.  MacDermott  to  look  for  Don 
Quixote  in  the  attic  and  bring  it  to  him,  and  she  had  done 
so.  He  had  tried  to  read  the  book,  but  it  was  too  heavy  for 
him  .  .  .  his  strength  was  swiftly  going  from  him  .  .  . 
and  it  had  fallen  from  his  hands  on  to  the  quilt  and  then 
had  rolled  on  to  the  floor. 

' '  I  can 't  hold  it, ' '  he  murmured. 

"Will  I  read  it  to  you?"  she  said  to  him. 

"Yes,  if  you  please!"  he  said. 

It  was  a  badly-bound  book,  printed  in  small,  eye-torment- 
ing type,  and  it  was  difficult  to  hold ;  but  she  made  no  com- 
plaint of  these  things,  and  for  an  hour  or  so,  she  read  to 
Uncle  Matthew.  She  put  the  book  down  when  his  breath- 
ing denoted  that  he  was  asleep,  but  she  did  not  immediately 
go  from  the  room.  She  sat  for  a  time,  looking  at  the 
delicate  face  on  the  pillow,  and  then  she  picked  the  book 
up  again  and  began  to  examine  it,  turning  the  pages  over 
slowly,  reading  here  and  reading  there,  and  examining  the 
illustrations  closely.  There  was  a  puzzled  look  on  her  face, 
and  the  flesh  between  her  eyebrows  was  puckered  and  deeply 
lined.  She  put  the  book  down  on  her  lap  and  looked  in- 
tently in  front  of  her,  as  if  she  were  considering  some 
problem.  She  picked  the  book  up  again,  and  once  more 
turned  over  the  pages  and  examined  the  pictures ;  but  she 

120 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  121 

did  not  appear  to  find  any  solution  of  her  problem  as  she 
did  so,  for  she  put  the  book  down  on  the  dressing-table  and 
left  it  there.  She  bent  over  the  sleeping  man  for  a  few 
moments,  listening  to  his  breathing,  and  then  she  went  out 
of  the  room  leaving  the  door  ajar. 

And  while  she  was  downstairs,  Uncle  Matthew  died.  He 
had  not  wakened  from  his  sleep.  He  seemed  to  be  exactly 
in  the  same  position  as  he  was  when  she  left  the  room.  He 
was  not  breathing  .  .  .  that  was  all.  She  called  to  Uncle 
William,  and  he  came  quickly  up  the  stairs. 

' '  Is  anything  wrong  ? "  he  said  anxiously. 

"Matt's  dead!"  she  replied. 

He  stood  still. 

"Shut  the  shop,"  she  said,  "and  send  for  John  and  the 
doctor!" 

He  did  not  move. 

She  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  "Do  you  hear  me, 
William?" 

He  started.     ' '  Aye, ' '  he  said, ' '  I  hear  you  right  enough ! ' ' 

But  he  still  remained  in  the  room,  gazing  blindly  at  his 
brother.  Then  he  went  over  to  the  bed  and  sat  down  and 
cried. 

"Poor  William!"  said  Mrs.  MaeDennott,  putting  her 
arms  around  him. 

ii 

John  wrote  to  Maggie  Carmichael  to  tell  her  of  his 
Uncle's  death.  It  would  not  be  possible  for  him  to  keep 
his  engagement  with  her  on  the  following  Saturday.  She 
sent  a  thinly-written  note  of  sympathy  to  him,  telling  him 
that  she  would  not  expect  to  see  him  for  a  while  because 
of  his  bereavement.  "You'll  not  be  in  the  mood  for  en- 
joying yourself  at  present,"  she  wrote,  "and  1  daresay  you 
would  prefer  to  stay  at  home  at  present.  I  expect  you'll 
miss  your  Uncle  terribly!  ..." 

Indeed,  lie  did  miss  his  Uncle  terribly ! 


122  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

There  was  a  strange  quietness  in  the  house  before  the 
day  of  the  burial,  which  was  natural,  but  it  was  maintained 
after  Uncle  Matthew  had  been  put  in  the  grave  where 
John's  father  lay.  Uncle  William's  quick,  loud  voice  be- 
came hushed  and  slow  and  sometimes  inaudible,  and  Mrs. 
MacDermott  went  about  her  work  with  few  words  to  any- 
one. John  had  come  on  her,  an  hour  or  two  before  the  coffin 
lid  was  screwed  down,  putting  a  book  in  Uncle  Matthew's 
hands.  He  saw  the  title  of  it  ...  Don  Quixote  .  .  .  and 
he  said  to  her,  ' '  What  are  you  doing,  ma  ? ' '  She  looked  up 
quickly  and  hesitated.  ' '  Nothing ! ' '  she  answered,  and  sud- 
denly aware  that  she  did  not  wish  to  be  observed,  he  went 
away  and  left  her  alone.  It  seemed  to  him  afterwards  that 
she  resented  his  knowledge  of  what  she  had  done  .  .  .  that 
she  looked  at  him  sometimes  as  if  she  were  forbidding  him 
ever  to  speak  of  it  ...  but  she  did  not  talk  of  it.  She 
spoke  as  seldom  as  Uncle  William  did,  and  it  seemed  to 
John  that  the  voice  had  been  carried  out  of  the  house  when 
Uncle  Matthew  had  been  carried  to  the  graveyard.  He 
felt  that  he  could  not  endure  the  oppression  of  this  silence 
any  longer,  that  he  must  speak  to  someone,  and,  in  his 
search  for  comfort,  his  mind  wandered  in  search  of  Maggie 
Carmichael  with  intenser  devotion  than  he  had  ever  ex- 
perienced before.  If  only  Uncle  Matthew  were  alive,  John 
could  talk  to  him  of  Maggie.  Uncle  Matthew  would  listen 
to  him.  Uncle  Matthew  always  had  listened  to  him.  He 
had  never  shown  any  impatience  when  John  had  talked  to 
him  of  this  scheme  and  that  scheme,  and  he  would  not  have 
mocked  his  love  for  Maggie.  How  queer  a  thing  it  was  that 
Uncle  Matthew  who  had  seemed  to  be  the  least  important 
person  in  the  house  should  have  so  ...  so  stifled  the  rest 
of  them  by  his  death ! 

Uncle  William,  who  bore  the  whole  burden  of  maintaining 
the  family,  mourned  for  Uncle  Matthew  as  if  he  had  lost 
his  support ;  and  Mrs.  MacDermott  began  to  talk,  when  she 
talked  at  all,  of  the  things  that  Matt  had  liked.  Matt  liked 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  123 

this  and  Matt  liked  that  .  .  .  and  yet  she  had  seemed  not 
merely  to  disregard  Uncle  Matthew  when  he  was  alive,  but 
actually  to  dislike  him.  Uncle  Matthew  must  have  had  a 
stronger  place  in  the  house  than  any  of  them  had  imagined. 
John  could  not  bear  to  go  to  the  attic  now,  although  he 
wished  to  turn  over  the  books  which  were  now  his.  It  was 
in  the  attic  that  Uncle  Matthew  had  found  most  of  his 
happiness,  in  the  company  of  uncomplaining,  unreproach- 
ful  books,  and  the  memory  of  that  happiness  had  drawn 
John  to  the  attic  one  day  when  he  most  missed  his  Uncle. 
He  had  handled  the  books  very  fondly,  turning  over  pages 
and  pausing  now  and  then  to  read  a  passage  or  two  .  .  . 
and  while  he  had  turned  the  pages  of  an  old  book  with 
faded,  yellow  leaves,  he  had  found  a  cutting  from  a  Belfast 
newspaper.  It  contained  a  report  of  the  police  proceedings 
against  Uncle  Matthew,  and  it  was  headed,  STRANGE  BE- 
HAVIOUR OP  A  BALLYARDS  MAN!  .  .  .  John  hurriedly  put 
the  book  down  and  went  out  of  the  room.  He  had  not  shed 
a  tear  over  Uncle  Matthew.  He  did  not  wish  to  cry  over 
him.  He  felt  that  Uncle  Matthew  would  like  his  mourners 
to  have  dry  eyes  .  .  .  but  it  was  hard  not  to  cry  when  one 
read  that  bare,  uncomprehending  account  of  Uncle  Mat- 
thew's chivalrous  act.  Strange  behaviour,  the  reporter 
named  it,  when  every  instinct  in  John  demanded  that  it 
should  be  called  noble  behaviour.  Was  a  man  to  be  called 
a  fool  because  his  heart  compelled  him  to  perform  an  act  of 
simple  loyalty?  .  .  .  Strange  behaviour!  John  seized  the 
cutting  and  crumpled  it  in  his  hand.  Then  he  straightened 
it  out  again  and  tore  it  in  pieces.  Were  people  so  poor  in 
faith  and  devotion  that  they  could  not  recognise  the  nobility 
of  what  Uncle  Matthew  had  done?  And  for  that  act  of 
goodness,  Uncle  Matthew  had  gone  to  his  grave  under 
stigma.  "Poor  sowl,"  they  said  in  Ballyards,  "it's  a 
merciful  release  for  him.  He  was  always  quare  in  the 
head!" 

John  could  not  stay  in  the  house  with  kis  memories  of 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

Uncle  Matthew,  and  so  he  went  for  walks  along  the  shores 
of  the  Lough,  to  Cubbinf  erry  and  Kirklea  or,  turning  coast- 
wards,  towards  Millreagh  and  Ilolmesport ;  but  there  was 
no  comfort  to  be  found  in  these  walks.  He  returned  from 
them,  tired  in  body,  but  unrested  in  mind.  He  tried  to 
write  another  story,  but  he  had  to  put  the  pen  and  ink  and 
paper  away  again,  and  he  told  himself  that  he  had  no 
ability  to  write  a  story.  Wherever  he  went  and  whatever 
he  did,  the  loss  of  Uncle  Matthew  pressed  upon  him  and 
left  him  with  a  sense  of  impotence,  until  at  last,  his  nature, 
weary  of  its  own  dejection,  turned  and  demanded  relief. 
And  so  he  set  his  thoughts  again  on  Maggie  Carmichael,  and 
each  day  he  found  himself,  more  and  more,  thinking  of  her 
until,  after  a  while,  he  began  to  think  only  of  her.  He  had 
written  to  her  a  second  time,  but  she  had  not  answered  his 
letter.  He  remembered  that  she  had  protested  against  her 
incompetence  as  a  correspondent.  "I'm  a  poor  hand  at 
letter-writing,"  she  had  said  laughingly.  She  could  talk 
easily  enough,  but  she  never  knew  what  to  put  in  a  letter, 
and  anyhow  it  was  a  terrible  bother  to  write  one.  A  letter 
would  be  a  poor  substitute  for  her,  he  told  himself.  He 
must  see  her  soon.  Mourning  or  no  mourning,  he  would  go 
to  Belfast  on  the  next  Saturday  and  would  see  her.  It 
would  not  be  possible  for  him  to  take  her  to  a  theatre,  but 
she  and  he  could  go  for  a  long  walk  or  they  could  sit  to- 
gether in  the  restaurant  and  talk  to  each  other.  This  lone- 
liness and  silence  was  becoming  unendurable:  he  must  get 
away  from  the  atmosphere  of  loss  and  mourning  into  an 
atmosphere  of  life  and  love.  Uncle  Matthew  would  wish 
him  to  do  that.  He  felt  certain  that  Uncle  Matthew  would 
wish  him  to  do  that.  Uncle  Matthew  would  hate  to  think 
of  his  nephew  prowling  along  the  roads  in  misery  and 
suffering  when  his  whole  desire  had  been  that  he  should 
have  opportunity  and  satisfaction.  Pie  had  bequeathed  his 
property  and  his  money  "to  my  beloved  nephew  John  Mac- 
Dermott, ' '  and  John  had  been  deeply  moved  by  the  affection 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  125 

that  glowed  through  the  legal  phraseology  of  the  will.  It 
was  not  yet  known  how  much  money  there  would  be,  for 
Mr.  McGonigal,  the  solicitor,  had  not  completed  his  ac- 
count of  Uncle  Matthew's  affairs;  but  the  amount  of  it 
could  not  be  very  large.  That  was  immaterial  to  John. 
What  mattered  to  him  was  that  his  Uncle's  love  for  him  had 
never  flickered  for  a  moment,  but  had  shone  steadily  and 
surety  until  the  day  of  his  death. 

"I  never  told  anyone  but  him  about  Maggie,"  John 
thought.  "  I  'm  glad  I  told  him  .  .  .  and  I  know  he 'd  want 
me  to  go  to  her  now !" 

And  so,  late  on  Friday  evening,  he  resolved  that  he  would 
go  to  Belfast  on  the  following  day.  He  sent  a  short  note  to 
Maggie,  addressing  it  to  the  restaurant,  in  which  he  told 
her  that  he  would  call  for  her  on  Saturday.  He  begged 
that  she  would  go  for  a  walk  with  him.  "We  might  go  up 
the  Cave  Hill,"  he  wrote,  "and  be  back  in  plenty  of  time 
for  tea!" 

iii 

He  crossed  the  Lagan  in  the  ferry-boat,  so  impatient  was 
he  to  get  quickly  to  Maggie,  but  when  he  reached  the 
restaurant,  Maggie  was  not  there.  He  stood  in  the  door- 
way, looking  about  the  large  room,  but  there  was  no  one 
present,  for  it  was  too  early  yet  for  mid-day  meals.  Maggie 
was  probably  engaged  in  the  small  room  at  the  back  of  the 
restaurant  and  would  presently  appear.  It  was  Mrs. 
Bothwell  who  came  to  answer  his  call. 

"Oh,  good  morning!"  he  said,  trying  to  keep  the  note  of 
disappointment  out  of  his  voice. 

"Good  morning,"  she  answered. 

"It's  a  brave  day!" 

"It's  not  so  bad,"  she  grudgingly  admitted. 

"Is  ...  is  Maggie  in?"  he  asked. 

"In!"  she  exclaimed,  looking  at  him  with  astonishment 
plain  on  her  face. 


126  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Yes.  Isn't  she  in?  She's  not  sick  or  anything,  is 
she  ? "  he  replied  anxiously. 

' '  Oh,  dear  bless  you,  no  !  She 's  not  sick, ' '  Mrs.  Both- 
well  said.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know  where 
she  is?" 

"No,  I  .  .  .  I  don't,  Mrs.  Bothwell!"  There  was  a  note 
of  apprehension  in  his  voice.  "I  thought  she'd  be  here!" 

' '  But  haven 't  you  been  to  the  house  ? ' ' 

"No,"  he  answered.  "I've  just  arrived  from  Ballyards 
this  minute.  What's  wrong,  Mrs.  Bothwell?" 

"There's  nothing  wrong  that  I  know  of.  Only  I  don't 
understand  you  not  knowing  about  it.  Why  aren't  you  at 
the  church?" 

"Church!" 

"Aye.  Sure,  I'd  be  there  myself  only  I  can't  leave  the 
shop.  I'm  glad  she's  getting  a  fine  day  for  it  anyway!" 

John  touched  her  on  the  arm.  ' ' I  don't  understand  what 
you're  talking  about,  Mrs.  Bothwell,"  he  said.  "What's 
happening  ? ' ' 

"Didn't  you  know  she's  being  married  the  day  on  a 
polisman?  ..." 

"Married!"  he  exclaimed  incredulously. 

"Aye.  She's  been  going  with  him  this  long  while  back, 
and  now  that  he's  been  promoted  .  .  .  they've  made  him  a 
sergeant  .  .  .  they've  got  married.  She's  done  well  for 
herself.  How  is  it  you  didn't  know  about  it,  and  you  and 
her  such  chums  together  ? ' ' 

"Did  I  hear  you  saying  she's  getting  married  the  day?" 
he  murmured,  gazing  at  her  in  a  stupefied  fashion. 

' '  That 's  what  I  keep  on  telling  you, ' '  she  replied,  ' '  only 
you  don't  pay  no  heed  to  me.  I  thought  you  were  her 
cousin!  ..." 

' '  No,  I  'm  not  her  cousin, ' '  he  answered.  ' '  I  was  ...  I 
was  going  with  her.  That's  all.  I'm  sorry  to  have 
bothered  you,  Mrs.  Bothwell ! ' ' 

"Oh,  it's  no  bother  at  all.     She  must  have  been  having 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  127 

you  on,  for  the  banns  was  up  at  St.  George's  this  three 
weeks!  ..." 

"St.  George's!"  he  repeated. 

' '  Aye,  these  three  weeks.  She  had  a  fancy  to  be  married 
in  St.  George's  Church,  for  all  it's  a  ritualistic  place,  and 
people  says  they're  going  fast  to  Popery  there.  But  I 
don 't  wonder  at  her,  for  it 's  quare  and  nice  to  see  the  wee 
boys  in  their  surplices,  singing  the  hymns !  .  .  . " 

He  interrupted  her.  "Three  weeks  ago,"  he  said,  as  if 
calculating.  "That  must  have  been  soon  after  I  met  her 
for  the  first  time.  I  met  her  here  in  this  room,  Mrs.  Both- 
well.  I'd  been  to  the  Royal  to  see  a  play,  and  I  came  in 
here  for  my  tea,  and  I  struck  up  to  her  for  I  liked  her 
look!  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  she's  a  nice  enough  looking  girl  is  Maggie,  though 
looks  is  not  everything,"  Mrs.  Bothwell  interjected. 

"She  never  told  me!  ..." 

' '  Oh,  well,  if  it  comes  to  that,  you  never  told  her  anything 
about  yourself,  did  you?"  Mrs.  Bothwell  demanded.  "I 
suppose  she  thought  you  were  just  a  fellow  out  for  a  bit  of 
fun,  and  she  might  as  well  have  a  bit  of  fun,  too ! ' ' 

"But  I  wasn't  out  for  fun,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  was  in 
earnest ! ' ' 

"That's  where  you  made  your  mistake,"  said  Mrs. 
Bothwell.  "I'm  sorry  for  you,  but  sure  you're  young 
enough  not  to  take  a  thing  like  that  to  heart,  and  she 's  not 
the  only  girl  in  the  world  by  a  long  chalk.  By  the  time 
you're  her  age,  she'll  have  a  child  or  two,  and '11  mebbe  be 
feeling  very  sorry  for  herself  .  .  .  and  you'll  have  the 
world  foment  you  still!  A  young  fellow  like  you  isn't 
going  to  let  a  wee  thing  like  that  upset  you?" 

"It  isn't  a  wee  thing,  Mrs.  Bothwell.  It's  a  big  thing," 
he  insisted. 

"Och,  sure,  everything's  big  looking  'til  you  see  some- 
thing bigger.  One  of  these  days  you'll  be  wondering  what 
in  the  earthly  world  made  you  think  twice  about  her!" 


128  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  moved  towards  the  door, 
but  suddenly  he  remembered  the  letter  which  he  had  written 
to  Maggie  on  the  previous  evening. 

' '  Did  a  letter  for  her  come  this  morning  ? "  he  said,  turn- 
ing again  to  Mrs.  Bothwell.  "I  wrote  to  her  last  night  to 
tell  her  I  was  coming  up  the  day !" 

' '  One  did  come, ' '  she  answered.  ' '  I  put  it  in  the  kitchen, 
intending  to  re-address  it  when  I  had  a  minute  to  spare. 
I'll  go  and  get  it.  I  suppose  you  don't  want  it  sent  on  to 
her  now  ? ' ' 

' '  No,  I  don 't.     It  was  only  to  tell  her  I  'd  meet  her  here ! ' ' 

''Well,  I'll  bring  it  to  you  then."  She  went  into  the 
kitchen  and  presently  returned,  carrying  John's  letter  in 
her  hand.  ' ' Is  this  it ? "  she  said.  "It's  got  the  Ballyards 
postmark  on  it. ' ' 

He  took  it  from  her.  "Yes,  that's  it,"  he  replied,  tear- 
ing it  in  pieces.  "Could  I  trouble  you  to  put  it  ih  the 
fire, ' '  he  said,  handing  the  torn  paper  to  her. 

"It's  no  trouble  at  all,"  she  answered,  taking  the  pieces 
from  him. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Bothwell!"  he  said. 

' '  Well,  good  morning  to  you ! ' ' 

He  opened  the  door  and  was  about  to  pass  out  of  the 
restaurant  when  she  spoke  to  him  again. 

"I  wouldn't  let  a  thing  like  that  upset  me  if  I  was  you," 
she  said.  "Sure,  what's  one  girl  more  nor  another  girl! 
You'll  get  your  pick  and  choice  before  long.  A  fine  fellow 
like  you  '11  not  go  begging  for  nothing ! ' ' 

"I'm  not  letting  it  upset  me/'  he  said,  "but  it'll  be  the 
queer  girl  that'll  make  a  fool  of  me  in  a  hurry !" 

"That's  the  spirit,"  said  Mrs.  Bothwell. 

iv 

He  walked  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  street  in  a  state 
of  fury.  He  had  been  treated  as  if  he  were  a  corner-boy. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  129 

Willie  Logan,  who  was  any  girl's  boy,  could  not  have  been 
treated  so  contemptuously  as  he,  who  had  never  cared  for 
any  other  girl,  had  been  treated.  She  had  married  a  police- 
man ...  a  peeler!  She  might  as  well  have  married  a 
soldier  or  a  militia-man.  A  MacDermott  had  been  rejected 
in  favour  of  a  peeler !  She  had  gone  straight  from  his  em- 
braces to  the  embraces  of  a  policeman  ...  a  common 
policeman.  She  had  refused  to  meet  him  on  a  Wednesday, 
he  remembered,  because,  probably,  she  had  engaged  to  meet 
the  peeler  on  that  evening.  He  would  be  off  duty  then! 
While  she  was  yielding  her  lips  to  John,  she  was  actually 
engaged  to  be  married  to  ...  to  a  policeman!  By 
heaven!  .  .  . 

What  a  good  and  fortunate  thing  it  was  that  he  had  not 
spoken  of  her  to  anyone  except  to  Uncle  Matthew!  If 
anyone  were  to  know  that  a  MacDermott  had  fallen  in  love 
with  a  girl  who  had  preferred  to  marry  a  peeler  ...  a 
peeler,  mind  you !  .  .  .  they  would  split  their  sides  laugh- 
ing. What  a  humiliation !  What  an  insufferable  thing  to 
have  happened  to  him!  That  was  your  love  for  you! 
That  was  your  romance  for  you !  .  .  .  Och !  Och,  och ! ! 
This  was  a  lesson  for  him,  indeed.  No  more  love  or  romance 
for  him.  Willie  Logan  could  run  after  girls  until  the  soles 
dropped  off  his  boots,  but  John  MacDermott  would  let  the 
girls  do  the  running  after  him  in  future.  No  girl  would 
ever  get  the  chance  again  to  throw  him  over  for  .  .  .  for  a 
peeler!  If  that  was  their  love,  they  could  keep  their 
love !  .  .  . 

He  walked  about  the  town  until,  after  a  while,  he  found 
himself  at  the  Theatre  Royal.  Still  raging  against  Maggie, 
he  paid  for  a  seat  in  the  pit.  He  had  forgotten  that  he  was 
in  mourning,  and  he  remembered  only  that  he  was  a  jilted 
lover,  a  MacDermott  cast  aside  for  a  policeman.  He  sat 
through  the  first  act  of  the  play,  without  much  compre- 
hension of  its  theme.  Then  in  the  middle  of  the  second 


130  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

act,  he  heard  the  heroine  vowing  that  she  loved  the  hero, 
and  he  got  up  and  walked  out  of  the  theatre. 

' '  I  could  write  a  better  play  than  that  with  one  hand  tied 
behind  my  back, ' '  he  said  to  himself.  ' '  Her  and  her  love ! ' ' 

He  walked  rapidly  from  the  theatre,  conscious  of  hunger, 
for  he  had  omitted  to  get  a  meal  before  going  into  the 
theatre,  but  he  was  unwilling  to  forego  the  pleasure  of 
starving  himself  as  a  sign  of  his  humiliation.  He  made  his 
way  towards  Smithfield  and  stopped  in  front  of  a  bookstall. 
A  couple  of  loutish  lads  were  fingering  a  red-bound  book 
as  he  approached  the  stall,  and  he  heard  them  tittering  in  a 
sneaky,  furtive  fashion  as  he  drew  near.  The  owner  of  the 
stall  emerged  from  the  back  of  his  premises,  and  when  they 
saw  him,  they  hurriedly  put  the  book  down  and  walked 
away.  John  glanced  at  it  and  read  the  title  on  the  cover: 
The  Art  of  Love  by  Ovid. 

' '  Love ! "  he  exclaimed  aloud.     ' '  Ooo-oo-oo  ! ' ' 

The  streets  were  full  of  young  men  and  women  intent  on 
an  evening's  pleasure,  and  as  he  hurried  away  from  Smith- 
field  Market  towards  the  railway  station,  he  received  bright 
glances  from  girls  who  were  willing  to  make  friends  with 
him.  He  scowled  heavily  at  them,  and  when  they  looked 
away  to  other  men,  he  filled  his  mind  with  sneers  and  bitter 
thoughts.  A  few  hours  before,  these  young  girls  would 
have  seemed  to  him  to  be  very  beautiful  and  innocent,  but 
now  they  appeared  to  him  to  be  deceitful  and  wicked.  Each 
evening,  he  told  himself,  these  girls  came  out  of  their  houses 
in  search  of  "boys"  whom  they  lured  into  love-making, 
teasing  and  tormenting  them,  until  at  last  they  tired  of 
them  and  sent  them  empty  away.  That  was  your  love  for 
you !  Uncle  Matthew  had  dreamed  of  romantic  love,  and 
John  had  set  out  to  find  it,  and  behold,  what  was  it?  A 
girl's  frolic,  a  piece  of  feminine  sport,  in  which  the  girl 
had  the  fun  and  the  boy  had  the  humiliation  and  pain. 
Maggie  could  go  from  him,  her  lips  still  warm  with  his 
kisses,  to  her  policeman  .  .  .  and  take  kisses  from  him ! 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  131 

There  might  be  other  hoaxed  lovers  ...  if  she  had  one, 
why  not  have  two  or  three  or  four  .  .  .  and  his  kisses 
might  have  meant  no  more  to  her  than  the  kisses  of  half-a- 
dozen  other  men.  Well,  he  had  learned  his  lesson!  No 
more  love  for  him.  .  .  . 

He  crossed  the  Queen 's  Bridge,  and  when  he  reached  the 
station,  he  came  upon  Willie  Logan,  moodily  gazing  at  the 
barriers  which  were  not  yet  open.  John,  undesirous  of 
society,  nodded  to  him  and  would  have  gone  away,  but 
Willie  suddenly  caught  hold  of  his  arm. 

' '  I  want  to  speak  to  you  a  minute,  John ! "  he  said 
thickly. 

The  smell  of  drink  drifted  from  him. 

' '  What  about  ? ' '  John  answered  sourly. 

"Come  over  here  'til  a  quiet  place,"  Willie  said,  still 
holding  John's  arm,  and  drawing  him  to  a  seat  at  the  other 
end  of  the  station.  "Sit  here  'til  the  gates  is  open,"  he 
added,  as  he  sat  down. 

' '  Is  there  anything  up  ? "  John  demanded. 

"Aye,"  Willie  replied  in  a  bewildered  voice.  "John, 
man,  I'm  in  terrible  trouble!" 

"Oh!" 

"Sore  disgrace,  John.  I  don't  know  what  my  da  and 
ma '11  say  to  me  at  all  when  they  hear  about  it.  Such  a 
thing!  .  .  ." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"Do  you  know  a  wee  girl  called  Jennie  Boak?"  John 
shook  his  head.  "Her  aunt  lives  in  Ballyards  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Cleeland!  ..." 

' '  Oh,  yes.     Is  that  her  aunt  ? ' ' 

"Aye.  Well,  me  an'  her  has  been  going  out  together  for 
a  wee  while  past,  and  she  says  now  she's  goin'  to  have  a 
child!" 

John  burst  into  laughter. 

"What  the  hell  are  you  laughing  at?"  Willie  demanded 
angrily. 


132  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"I  was  thinking  it  doesn't  matter  whether  it's  one  girl 
or  a  dozen  you're  after,  you'll  get  into  bother  just  the 
same ! ' ' 

"Aye,  but  what  am  I  to  do,  John?  I'll  have  to  tell  the 
oul'  fella,  and  he'll  be  raging  mad  when  he  hears  about  it. 
He 's  terrible  against  that  sort  of  thing,  and  dear  knows  I  'm 
an  awful  one  for  slipping  into  trouble.  I  can  not  keep 
away  from  girls,  John,  and  that's  the  God's  truth  of  it. 
And  I've  been  brought  up  as  respectable  as  anybody. 
Jennie 's  in  an  awful  state  about  it ! " 

' '  I  daresay, ' '  said  John. 

' '  She  says  I  '11  have  to  marry  her  over  the  head  of  it,  but 
sure  I  don't  want  to  get  married  at  all  ...  not  yet,  any- 
way. I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I'll  have  to  tell  the  oul' 
lad  and  he'll  have  me  scalded  with  his  tongue.  I  suppose 
I'll  have  to  marry  her.  It's  a  quare  thing  a  fella  can't 
go  out  with  a  girl  without  getting  into  bother.  I  wish  to 
my  goodness  I  had  as  much  control  over  myself  as  you 
have!" 

"Control!  "said  John. 

' '  Aye.    You  '11  never  get  into  no  bother ! ' ' 

"Huh! "said  John. 

The  barriers  were  opened,  and  Willie  and  John  passed 
through  on  to  the  platform,  and  presently  seated  themselves 
in  a  carriage. 

"This '11  be  a  lesson  to  me,"  said  Willie,  lying  back 
against  the  cushions  of  the  carriage.  "Not  to  be  running 
after  so  many  girls  in  future ! ' ' 

John  did  not  make  any  answer  to  him.  He  let  his 
thoughts  wander  out  of  the  carriage.  He  had  loved  Maggie 
Carmichael  deeply,  and  she  had  served  him  badly;  and 
Willie  Logan,  who  treated  girls  in  a  light  fashion,  was 
complaining  now  because  one  girl  had  loved  him  too  well. 
And  that  was  your  love  for  you!  That  was  the  high 
romantical  thing  of  which  Uncle  Matthew  had  so  often 
spoken  and  dreamed.  .  .  . 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  133 

He  came  out  of  his  thoughts  suddenly,  for  "Willie  Logan 
was  shaking  him. 

There  was  a  glint  in  Willie  Logan 's  eye !  .  .  . 

"I  say,  John,"  he  said,  "come  on  into  the  next  car- 
riage! There's  two  quare  nice  wee  girls  just  got  in!" 

"No,"  said  John. 

"Ah,  come  on,"  Willie  coaxed. 

"No,"  John  almost  shouted. 

"Well,  stay  behind  then.  I'll  have  the  two  to  myself," 
Willie  exclaimed,  climbing  out  of  the  carriage  as  he  spoke. 

"That  lad  deserves  all  he  gets,"  John  thought. 


His  mother  called  to  him  as  he  passed  through  the 
kitchen  on  his  way  to  the  attic  where  his  Uncle  Matthew's 
books  were  stored. 

"Your  Uncle  William's  wanting  a  talk  with  you,"  she 
said.  "Mr.  McGonigal's  been  here  about  the  will!" 

"  I  '11  be  down  in  a  wee  while, ' '  John  replied  as  he  climbed 
the  stairs.  He  wished  to  sit  in  some  quiet  place  until 
he  had  composed  his  mind  which  was  still  disturbed.  He 
had  hoped  to  have  the  railway  compartment  to  himself  after 
Willie  Logan  had  left  it,  but  two  drovers  had  hurriedly 
entered  it  as  the  train  was  moving  out  of  the  station,  and 
their  noisy  half-drunken  talk  had  prevented  him  from 
thinking  with  composure.  Willie  Logan's  loud  laughter, 
accompanied  by  giggles  and  the  sound  of  scuffling,  pene- 
trated from  the  next  compartment.  .  .  . 

In  the  attic,  there  would  be  quietness. 

He  entered  the  room  and  stood  among  the  disordered 
piles  of  books  that  lay  about  the  floor.  A  mania  for  re- 
arrangement had  seized  hold  of  him  one  day,  but  he  had 
done  no  more  than  take  the  books  from  their  shelves  and 
leave  them  in  confused  heaps.  He  had  promised  that  he 
would  make  the  attic  tidy  again,  when  his  mother  com- 


134  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

plained  of  the  room's  disarray.  His  mind  would  become 
quiet,  perhaps,  if  he  were  to  spend  a  little  time  now  in 
replacing  the  books  on  the  shelves  in  the  order  in  which  he 
wished  them  to  be.  He  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  con- 
templated them.  Most  of  these  volumes,  new  and  old, 
were  concerned  with  the  love  of  men  for  women.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  escape  from  the  knowledge  of  this  passion  in 
any  book  that  one  might  read.  Love  made  intrusions  even 
into  the  history  books,  and  bloody  wars  had  been  fought 
and  many  men  had  been  slain  because  of  a  woman 's  beauty 
or  to  gratify  her  whim.  Even  in  the  Bible !  .  .  . 

He  remembered  that  Uncle  Matthew  had  told  him  that 
the  Song  of  Solomon  was  a  real  love  song  or  series  of  songs, 
and  not,  as  the  headlines  to  the  chapters  insisted,  an  alle- 
gorical description  of  Christ 's  love  for  the  Church.  There 
was  a  Bible  lying  near  to  his  hand,  and  he  picked  it  up  and 
turned  the  pages  until  he  reached  the  Song  of  Songs  which 
is  called  Solomon's,  and  he  hurriedly  read  through  it  as  if 
he  were  searching  for  sentences. 

1  am  my  beloved's,  and  my  beloved  is  mine:  he  feedeth 
among  the  lilies.  Thou  art  beautiful,  0  my  love,  as  Tirzah, 
comely  as  Jerusalem,  terrible  as  an  army  with  banners! 

So  the  woman  sang.  Then  the  man,  less  abstract  than 
the  woman,  sang  in  his  turn. 

How  beautiful  are  thy  feet  with  shoes,  0  Prince's 
daughter:  the  joints  of  thy  thighs  are  like  jewels,  the  work 
of  the  hands  of  a  cunning  workman.  Thy  navel  is  like  a 
round  goblet  which  wanted  not  liquor:  thy  belly  is  like  an 
heap  of  wheat  set  about  with  lilies.  Thy  two  breasts  are 
like  two  young  roes  that  are  twins!  .  .  . 

John  glanced  at  the  headline  to  this  song.  "  It 's  a  queer 
thing  to  call  that  'a  further  description  of  the  church's 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  135 

graces',''  he  said  to  himself,  and  then  his  eye  searched 
through  the  verses  of  the  song  until  he  reached  the  line, 

How  fair  and  how  pleasant  art  thou,  0  love,  for  de- 
lights! .  .  . 

1 '  I   daresay, ' '  he  murmured  to  himself.     ' '  I   daresay ! 
But  there 's  a  terrible  lot  of  misery  in  it,  too ! ' ' 
He  read  the  whole  of  the  last  song. 

Set  me  as  a  seal  upon  thine  heart,  as  a  seal  upon  thine 
arm:  for  love  is  strong  as  death:  jealousy  is  cruel  as  the 
grave:  the  coals  thereof  are  coals  of  fire,  which  hath  a  most 
vehement  flame.  Many  waters  cannot  quench  love,  neither 
can  the  floods  drown  it.  .  .  . 

' '  That 's  true, ' '  he  said.  ' '  That 's  very  true !  I  love  her 
just  the  same,  for  all  she's  treated  me  so  bad!  Many 
waters  cannot  quench  love,  neither  can  the  floods  drown  it. 
Oh,  I  wish  to  my  God  I  could  forget  things  as  easy  as  Willie 
Logan  forgets  them ! ' ' 

He  closed  the  Bible  and  put  it  down  on  the  floor  beside 
him,  and  sat  with  his  hands  clutching  hold  of  his  ankles. 
He  would  have  to  go  away  from  Ballyards.  He  would  not 
be  able  to  rest  contentedly  near  Belfast  where  Maggie  lived 
.  .  .  with  her  peeler !  He  must  go  away  from  home,  and 
the  further  away  he  went,  the  better  it  would  be.  Then  he 
might  forget  about  her.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  not  true 
that  "many  waters  cannot  quench  love,  neither  can  the 
floods  drown  it."  Poets  had  a  terrible  habit  of  exaggerat- 
ing things,  arid  perhaps  he  would  forget  his  love  for  Maggie 
in  some  distant  place !  .  .  . 

There  was  a  copy  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  perched  on  top  of 
a  pile  of  books.  "That  was  the  cause  of  all  my  trouble," 
he  said,  pushing  it  so  that  it  fell  off  the  pile  on  to  the  floor 
at  his  feet.  He  picked  it  up  and  opened  it,  and  as  he  did 


136  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

so,  his  eyes  rested  on  Mercutio's  speech,  //  love  be  rough 
with  you,  be  rough  with  love. 

Comfort  instantly  came  into  his  mind. 

' '  I  will, ' '  he  said,  rising  from  the  floor. 


VI 

His  Uncle  William  was  in  the  kitchen  when  he  descended 
the  stairs  from  the  attic. 

"Mr.  McGonigal  was  here  this  morning  after  you  went 
up  to  Belfast,"  he  said,  as  John  entered  the  kitchen. 
"Everything's  settled  up.  Your  Uncle  Matthew  left  you 
£180  and  his  books.  It's  more  nor  I  imagined  he  had, 
though  I  knew  well  he  hardly  spent  a  copper  on  himself, 
beyond  the  books  he  bought.  He  was  inclined  to  be  an 
extravagant  man  like  the  rest  of  us  before  that  bother  he 
got  into  in  Belfast  over  the  head  of  the  oul '  Queen,  but  he 
changed  greatly  after.  The  money '11  be  useful  to  you, 
boy,  when  you  start  off  in  life ! ' ' 

' '  I  '11  come  into  the  shop  with  you,  Uncle  William, ' '  John 
said,  glancing  towards  the  scullery  where  his  mother  was. 
"I  want  to  have  a  word  or  two  with  you !" 

"Very  good,"  Uncle  William  replied,  leading  the  way 
into  the  shop. 

They  sat  down  together  in  the  little  counting-house  while 
John  told  his  Uncle  of  his  desire  to  go  away  from  home. 

' '  And  where  in  the  earthly  world  do  you  want  to  go  to  ?" 
Uncle  William  demanded. 

"Anywhere.  London,  mebbe!  I'm  near  in  the  mind  to 
go  to  America.  Mebbe,  I'll  just  travel  the  world ! ' ' 

"A  hundred  and  eighty  pounds '11  not  carry  you  far," 
Uncle  William  exclaimed. 

"It'll  take  me  a  good  piece  of  the  way,  and  if  I  can't  earn 
enough  to  take  me  the  rest  of  it,  sure,  what  good  am  I  ? " 

Uncle  William  shrugged  his  shoulders.     "You  must  do 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  137 

as  you  please,  I  suppose,  but  I  '11  miss  you  sore  when  you  do 
go.  It  '11  be  poor  pleasure  for  me  to  live  on  here,  with  you 
gone  and  your  Uncle  Matthew  dead !" 

"I'll  come  back  every  now  and  then  to  see  you,"  John 
promised.  ' '  I  'm  not  going  to  cut  myself  off  from  you  alto- 
gether. You  know  that  rightly.  I  just  want  to  see  a  bit  of 
the  world.  I  ...  I  want  to  find  out  things ! ' ' 

"What  things,  John?" 

"Oh  .  .  .  everything!     Whatever  there  is  to  find  out!" 

"I  sometimes  think,"  said  Uncle  William,  "you  can  find 
out  all  there  is  to  find  out  at  home,  if  you  have  enough 
gumption  in  you  to  find  out  anything  at  all.  Have  you 
told  your  ma  yet  ? ' ' 

John  shook  his  head. 

"It'll  want  a  bit  of  telling,"  Uncle  William  prophesied. 

' '  I  daresay,  but  she  '11  have  plenty  of  time  to  get  used  to 
it.  I'm  not  going  this  minute.  I'm  going  to  try  and  do 
some  writing  at  home  first,  'til  I  get  my  hand  in.  Then 
when  I  think  I  know  something  about  the  job,  I'll  go  and 
see  what  I  can  make  out  of  it. ' ' 

Uncle  William  sat  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  tapping 
noiselessly  on  the  desk  with  his  fingers. 

"It's  a  pity  you've  no  notion  of  the  grocery,"  he  said. 
' '  This  shop  '11  be  yours  one  of  these  days ! ' ' 

"I  haven't  any  fancy  for  it,"  John  replied. 

"I  know  you  haven't.  It's  a  pity  all  the  same.  I  sup- 
pose, when  I'm  dead,  you'll  sell  the  shop!" 

"You're  in  no  notion  of  dying  yet  awhile,  Uncle  William. 
A  hearty  man  like  you'll  outlive  us  all !" 

"Mebbe,  but  that's  not  the  point,  John.  The  MacDer- 
motts  have  owned  this  shop  a  powerful  while,  as  your  ma 
tells  you  many's  a  time.  When  I'm  dead,  you'll  be  the 
last  of  us  ...  and  you'll  want  to  give  up  the  shop.  That's 
what  I  think 's  a  pity.  I'm  with  your  ma  over  that.  I 
suppose,  though,  the  whole  history  of  the  world  is  just  one 


138  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

record  of  change  and  alteration,  and  it's  no  use  complain- 
ing. The  shop  '11  have  to  go,  and  the  MacDermotts,  too ! 
..."  He  did  not  speak  for  a  few  moments,  and  then,  in  a 
brisker  tone,  he  said, ' '  Mebbe,  one  of  the  assistants  '11  buy  it 
from  you.  Henry  Blackwood  has  money  saved,  I  know, 
and  by  the  time  you  want  to  sell  it,  he'll  mebbe  have  a 
good  bit  past  him.  I'll  drop  a  wee  hint  to  him  that  you'll 
be  wanting  to  sell,  so's  to  prepare  him !" 

"Very  well,  Uncle!"  John  said. 

"If  you  do  sell  the  shop,  make  whoever  buys  it  change  the 
name  over  the  door.  If  the  MacDermott  family  is  not  to 
be  in  control  of  it,  then  I'd  like  well  for  the  name  to  be 
painted  out  altogether  and  the  new  name  put  in  its  place. 
I'd  hate  to  think  of  anyone  pretending  the  MacDermotts 
was  still  here,  carrying  on  their  old  trade,  and  them  mebbe 
not  giving  as  good  value  as  we  gave.  The  MacDermotts 
have  queer  pride,  John ! ' ' 

"I  know  they  have,  Uncle  William.     I  have,  too !" 

"And  they  wouldn't  lie  content  in  their  graves  if  they 
thought  their  names  was  associated  with  bad  value ! ' ' 

"You're  taking  it  for  granted,  Uncle,  I'll  want  to  sell  the 
shop.  Mebbe,  I  won't.  I '11  mebbe  not  be  good  at  anything 
else  but  the  grocery.  I'm  talking  big  now  about  writing 
books,  but  who  knows  whether  I  '11  ever  write  one ! ' ' 

"Oh,  you'll  write  one,  John.  You'll  write  plenty. 
You'll  do  it  because  you  want  to  do  it.  You've  got  your 
da 's  nature.  When  he  wanted  a  thing,  he  got  it,  no  matter 
who  had  it ! " 

"There  was  one  thing  he  wanted,  Uncle  William,  and 
wanted  bad,  but  couldn't  get!" 

"What  was  that,  son?"  Uncle  William  demanded. 

"He  wanted  to  live,  but  he  wasn't  let,"  John  answered. 

Uncle  William  considered  for  a  few  moments.  "Of 
course,"  he  said,  "there's  some  things  that  even  a  MacDer- 
mott can't  do!" 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  139 

vii 

John  left  his  Uncle  in  the  shop  and  went  into  the  kitchen 
to  tell  his  mother  of  his  decision.  He  felt  certain  that  she 
would  oppose  him,  and  he  braced  himself  to  resist  her  ap- 
peals that  he  should  change  his  mind. 

But  she  took  his  announcement  very  quietly. 

"I've  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  London,  ma!"  he  said 
to  her. 

She  did  not  look  up  immediately.  Then  she  turned  to- 
wards him,  and  said,  "Oh,  yes,  John  !" 

He  paused,  nonplussed  by  her  manner,  as  if  he  were  wait- 
ing for  her  to  proceed,  but  finding  that  she  did  not  say  any 
more,  he  continued.  ' '  I  daresay  it  '11  upset  you, ' '  he  said. 

' '  I  'in  used  to  being  upset, ' '  she  replied,  ' '  and  I  expected 
it.  "When  will  you  be  going  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know  yet.  In  a  wee  while.  I'll  have  to  speak 
to  Mr.  Cairnduff  first  about  quitting  the  school,  and  then 
I'll  stay  at  home  for  a  bit,  writing  'til  I'm  the  master  of  it. 
After  that  1 11  go  to  London  ...  or  mebbe  to  America ! ' ' 

She  sat  quite  still  in  the  armchair  beneath  the  window 
that  overlooked  the  yard.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  say 
more  to  her,  that  she  ought  to  say  more  to  him,  but  he 
could  not  think  of  anything  to  say  to  her,  because  she  had 
said  so  little  to  him. 

"I  hope  you're  not  upset  about  it,"  he  said. 

"Upset!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sound  of  bitterness  in 
her  tone. 

' '  Yes.     I  know  you  never  approved  of  the  idea ! ' ' 

"It  doesn't  make  any  difference  whether  I  approve  or 
not,  does  it?  .  .  ." 

"That's  not  a  fair  way  to  put  it,  ma!" 

"But  it  amounts  to  that  all  the  same,"  she  retorted. 
"No,  John,  I'm  not  upset.  What  would  be  the  good?  I 
had  other  hopes  for  you,  but  they  weren't  your  hopes,  and 
I  daresay  you're  right.  I  daresay  you  are.  After  all,  we 


140  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

...  we  have  to  ...  to  do  the  best  we  can  for  ourselves 
.  .  .  haven't  we?" 

"Yes,  ma!" 

' '  And  if  you  think  you  can  do  better  in  London  ...  or 
America  nor  you  can  in  Ballyards  .  .  .  well,  you're  right 
to  ...  to  go,  aren't  you?" 

"That's  what  I  think,  ma!"  John  answered. 

She  did  not  say  any  more,  and  he  sat  at  the  table,  tapping 
on  it  with  a  pencil.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  kitchen 
but  the  ticking  of  the  clock  and  the  noise  of  the  water  boil- 
ing in  the  kettle  and  the  little  tap,  tap  .  .  .  tap,  tap  .  .  . 
tap,  tap,  tap  ...  of  his  pencil  on  the  table.  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dermott  had  been  hemming  a  handkerchief  when  John  en- 
tered the  kitchen,  and  as  he  glanced  at  her  now,  he  saw 
that  her  head  was  bent  over  it  again.  He  looked  at  her 
for  a  long  while,  it  seemed  to  him,  but  she  did  not  raise  her 
head  to  return  his  look.  If  she  would  only  rebuke  him  for 
wishing  to  go  ...  but  this  awful  silence!  .  .  . 

He  looked  about  the  kitchen,  as  if  he  were  assuring  him- 
self that  the  old,  familiar  things  were  still  in  their  places. 
He  would  be  glad,  of  course,  to  go  away  from  home,  because 
he  wished  to  adventure  into  bigger  things  .  .  .  but  he 
would  be  sorry  to  go,  too.  There  was  something  very  dear 
and  friendly  about  the  house.  He  had  experienced  much 
love  and  care  in  it,  and  had  had  much  happiness  here. 
Nevertheless,  he  would  be  glad  to  go.  He  needed  a  change, 
he  wished  to  have  things  happening  to  him.  He  remem- 
bered very  vividly  something  that  his  Uncle  Matthew  had 
said  to  him  in  this  very  room.  ' '  Sure,  what  does  it  matter 
whether  you're  happy  and  contented  or  not,  so  long  as 
things  are  happening  to  you ! ' ' 

That  was  the  right  spirit.  Uncle  Matthew  had  known 
all  the  time  what  was  the  right  life  for  a  man  to  lead,  even 
although  he  had  never  gone  out  into  the  world  himself. 
What  if  Maggie  Carmichael  had  treated  him  badly?  // 
love  be  rough  with  you,  ~be  rough  with  love!  Who  was 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  141 

Maggie  Carmichael  anyway?  One  woman  in  a  world  full 
of  women !  She  was  only  Maggie  Carmichael  ...  or  Mag- 
gie whatever  the  policeman 's  name  was !  //  love  be  rough 
with  you,  be  rough  with  love!  .  .  .  Oh,  he  would,  he  would ! 
There  were  finer  women  in  the  world  than  Maggie  Car- 
michael, and  what  was  to  prevent  him  from  getting  the 
finest  woman  amongst  them  if  he  wanted  her.  Had  it  not 
been  said  of  his  father  that  he  could  have  taken  a  queen 
from  a  king's  bed,  lifted  her  clean  out  of  a  palace  in  face 
of  the  whole  court  and  taken  her  to  his  home,  a  happy  and 
contented  woman  ?  .  .  .  Well,  then,  what  one  MacDermott 
could  do,  another  MacDermott  could  do.  ... 

His  mother  got  up  from  her  chair  and,  putting  down  her 
hemmed  handkerchief,  said,  "  It 's  time  I  wet  the  tea ! ' ' 

viii 

He  watched  her  as  she  went  about  the  kitchen,  making 
preparations  for  the  meal,  and  he  wondered  why  it  was  that 
she  did  not  look  at  him.  Very  carefully  she  averted  her 
eyes  from  him  as  she  passed  from  the  fireplace  to  the  scul- 
lery ;  and  when  she  had  to  approach  the  place  where  he  was 
sitting,  she  did  so  with  downcast  gaze.  Suddenly  he  knew 
why  she  would  not  look  at  him.  He  knew  that  if  she  were 
to  do  so,  she  would  cry,  and  as  the  knowledge  came  to  him, 
a  great  tenderness  for  her  arose  in  his  heart,  and  he  stood 
up  and  putting  out  his  hands  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed 
her.  And  then  she  cried.  Her  body  shook  with  sobs  as 
she  clung  to  him,  her  face  thrust  tightly  against  his  breast. 
But  she  did  not  speak.  Uncle  William,  coming  from  the 
shop,  looked  into  the  kitchen  for  a  moment,  but,  observing 
his  sister's  grief,  went  hurriedly  back  to  the  shop. 

"Don't,  ma!"  John  pleaded,  holding  her  as  if  she  were  a 
distressed  child. 

"I  can't  help  it,  John,"  she  cried.  "I'll  be  all  right 
in  a  wee  while,  but  I  can't  help  it  yet!" 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

After  a  time,  she  gained  control  of  herself,  and  grad- 
ually her  sobs  subsided,  and  then  they  ceased. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  cry,"  she  said. 

"No,  ma!" 

' '  But  I  couldn  't  control  myself  any  longer.  I  '11  not  give 
way  again,  John!" 

She  went  to  the  scullery  and  returned  with  cups  and 
saucers  which  she  put  on  the  table. 

"Would  you  like  some  soda-bread  or  wheaten  farls?" 
she  asked. 

"I'll  have  them  both,"  he  answered.  He  paused  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  before  she  had  time  to  go  to  the  pantry, 
he  went  on.  "You  know,  ma,  I  .  .  .  I  have  to  go.  I  mean 
I  ...  I  have  to  go ! " 

"Have  to  go,  John?" 

"Yes.  I  ...  I  have  to  go.  I  was  friends  with  a 
girl!  .  .  ." 

She  came  quickly  to  his  side,  and  put  her  arms  round  his 
neck.  The  misery  had  suddenly  gone  from  her  face,  and 
there  was  a  look  of  anxiety,  mingled  with  gratification,  in 
her  eyes. 

"That's  it,  is  it?"  she  said.  "Oh,  I  thought  you  were 
tired  of  your  home.  Poor  son,  poor  son,  did  she  not  treat 
you  well?" 

' '  She  was  married  this  morning  on  a  peeler,  ma ! ' ' 

' '  And  you  in  love  with  her  ? ' '  she  exclaimed  indignantly. 

"Aye,  ma!" 

' '  The  woman 's  a  fool, ' '  said  Mrs.  MacDermott.  ' '  You  're 
well  rid  of  her!  .  .  ." 

He  saw  now  that  there  would  be  no  further  objection 
made  by  his  mother  against  his  going  from  home.  As 
clearly  as  if  she  had  said  so,  he  understood  that  she  now  re- 
garded his  departure  from  home  as  a  pilgrimage  from  which 
in  due  time  he  would  return,  purged  of  his  grief.  And  she 
was  content. 

"A  woman  that  would  marry  a  peeler  when  she  might 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  143 

marry  a  MacDermott,  is  not  fit  to  marry  a  MacDermott," 
she  said,  almost  to  herself. 

ix 

And  so,  when  three  months  later,  he  decided  to  go  to 
London,  she  did  not  try  to  hold  him  back.  He  had  worked 
hard  on  a  bitter  novel  that  would,  he  imagined,  fill  men 
with  amazement  and  women  with  shame,  and  when  he  had 
completed  it,  he  bound  the  long,  loose  sheets  of  foolscap  to- 
gether and  announced  that  he  was  now  ready  to  go  to  Lon- 
don. Mr.  Cairnduff  told  him  of  lodgings  in  Brixton,  where 
an  old  friend  of  his,  an  Ulsterman  and  a  journalist,  was 
living,  and  Mr.  McCaughan  gave  him  a  very  vivid  account 
of  the  perils  of  London  life.  "Bad  women !"  he  said,  om- 
inously, "are  a  terrible  temptation  to  a  young  fellow  all 
by  himself  in  a  big  town!"  and  then,  brightening  a  little, 
he  remarked  that  he  need  not  tell  so  sensible  a  lad  as  John 
how  to  take  care  of  himself.  John  had  only  to  remember 
that  he  was  a  MacDermott !  .  .  . 

But  Mrs.  MacDermott  did  not  offer  any  advice  to  him. 
She  packed  his  trunk  and  his  bag  on  the  day  he  was  to  leave 
Ballyards,  taking  care  to  put  a  Bible  at  the  bottom  of  the 
trunk,  and  told  him  that  they  were  ready  for  him.  He 
was  to  travel  by  the  night  boat  from  Belfast  to  Liverpool, 
and  it  was  not  necessary  for  him  to  leave  Ballyards  until 
the  evening,  nor  did  he  wish  to  spend  more  time  in  Belfast 
than  was  absolutely  necessary.  His  Uncle  and  his  mother 
were  to  accompany  him  to  the  boat:  Mr.  McCaughan  and 
Mr.  Cairnduff  would  say  good-bye  to  him  at  Ballyards  sta- 
tion. Willie  Logan,  now  safely  married  to  his  Jennie  and  a 
little  dashed  in  consequence  of  the  limitations  imposed  upon 
him  by  marriage,  had  volunteered  to  come  to  the  station 
"and  see  the  last  of"  him.  There  was  to  be  a  gathering 
of  friends  on  the  platform  .  .  .  but  he  wished  in  his  heart 
they  would  allow  him  to  go  away  in  peace  and  quietness. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

It  was  strange,  he  thought,  that  his  mother  did  not  talk  to 
him  about  his  journey  to  London.  He  had  imagined  that 
she  would  have  a  great  deal  to  say  about  it,  but  it  was  not 
until  the  day  of  his  departure  that  she  spoke  of  it  to  him. 

She  came  to  him,  after  she  had  packed  his  trunk  and  bag, 
and  said,  ' '  Come  into  the  return  room  a  wee  minute  ! ' '  and, 
obediently,  he  followed  her. 

' '  I  want  to  show  you  something, ' '  she  said  in  explanation. 
"Shut  the  door  behind  you!" 

"Is  there  anything  wrong,  ma? "  he  asked,  puzzled  by  the 
mystery  in  her  manner. 

' '  No, ' '  she  answered,  ' '  only  I  don 't  want  the  whole  world 
to  see  us ! " 

She  went  to  the  cupboard  and  took  out  a  bottle  of  whis- 
key. 

' '  Sit  down, ' '  she  said. 

' '  Is  that  whiskey  ? "  he  asked  as  he  seated  himself. 

She  nodded  her  head  and  returned  to  the  table. 

' '  You  're  not  thinking  of  giving  me  a  drop,  are  you  ? "  he 
exclaimed  laughingly. 

There  was  a  look  in  her  eyes  that  checked  laughter. 

"  If  I  had  my  way, ' '  she  said  with  great  bitterness,  ' '  I  'd 
take  the  men  that  make  this  stuff  and  I  'd  drown  them  in  it. 
I  'd  pour  it  down  their  throats  'til  they  choked !  .  .  . "  She 
poured  a  little  of  the  whiskey  into  a  saucer.  "Give  me  a 
light, ' '  she  demanded. 

He  went  to  the  mantel-shelf  and  brought  the  box  of 
matches  from  it. 

"Strike  one,"  she  said,  and  added  when  he  had  done  so, 
"Set  fire  to  the  whiskey!" 

He  succeeded  in  making  the  spirit  burn,  and  for  a  little 
while  she  and  he  stood  by  the  table  while  the  cold  blue 
flames  curled  out  of  the  saucer,  wavering  and  spurting,  un- 
til the  spirit  was  consumed  and  the  flame  flickered  and 
expired. 

"That's  what  a  drunkard's  inside  is  like,"  said  Mrs. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  145 

MacDermott,  picking  up  the  saucer  and  carrying  it  down- 
stairs to  the  scullery  to  be  washed.  He  heard  the  water 
splashing  in  the  sink,  and  when  he  had  put  the  bottle  of 
whiskey  back  in  the  cupboard,  he  went  downstairs  and 
waited  until  she  had  finished.  She  returned  to  the  kitchen, 
carrying  the  washed  saucer,  and  when  she  had  placed  it  on 
the  dresser,  she  took  up  a  Bible  and  brought  it  to  him. 

"I  want  you  to  swear  to  me,"  she  said,  "that  you'll  never 
taste  a  drop  of  drink  as  long  as  you  live ! ' ' 

' '  That 's  easy  enough, ' '  he  answered.     ' '  I  don 't  like  it ! " 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  alarm.  "Have  you  tasted  it 
already,  then?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  How  would  I  know  I  didn't  like  it  if  I  hadn't 
tasted  it?  The  smell  of  it  is  enough  to  knock  you  down!" 

She  put  the  Bible  back  on  the  dresser.  "It  doesn't  mat- 
ter," she  said  when  he  held  out  his  hand  for  it.  "Mebbe 
you  have  enough  strength  of  your  own  to  resist  it.  I  ... 
I  don't  always  understand  you,  John,  and  I'm  fearful  some- 
times to  see  you  so  sure  of  yourself. ' '  She  came  to  him  sud- 
denly and  swiftly,  and  clasped  him  close  to  her.  "I  love 
you  with  the  whole  of  my  heart,  son,"  she  said,  "and  I'm 
desperate  anxious  about  you ! ' ' 

"You  needn't  be  anxious  about  me,  ma!"  he  answered. 
"I 'mall  right!" 


The  minister  said,  "God  bless  you,  boy !"  and  patted  him 
on  the  shoulder,  and  the  schoolmaster  wished  him  well  and 
begged  that  now  and  then  John  would  write  to  him.  Willie 
Logan,  hot  and  in  a  hurry,  entered  the  station,  eager  to 
say  good-bye  to  him,  but  the  stern  and  disapproving  eye  of 
the  minister  caused  him  to  keep  in  the  background  until 
John,  understanding  what  was  in  his  mind,  went  up  to  him. 

"I'm  sure  I  wish  you  all  you  can  wish  yourself,"  Willie 
said  very  heartily.  "I  wish  to  my  God  I  was  going  with 
you,  but  sure,  I  'm  one  of  the  unlucky  ones.  Aggie  sent  her 


14*6  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

love  to  you,  but  I  couldn  't  persuade  her  to  come  and  give  it 
to  you  herself ! ' ' 

"Thank  you,  "Willie.     You  might  tell  her  I'm  obliged 
to  her." 

' '  You  never  had  no  notion  of  her,  John  ? ' ' 
"I  had  not,  Willie.  How's  Jennie  keeping?" 
"Och,  she's  well  enough,"  he  answered  sulkily.  "Look 
at  the  minister  there,  glaring  at  me  as  I  was  dirt.  Sure, 
didn't  I  marry  the  girl,  and  got  intil  a  hell  of  a  row  over 
it  with  the  oul'  fella!  And  what's  he  got  to  glare  at? 
There 's  no  need  to  be  giving  you  good  advice  about  weemen, 
John,  for  you're  well  able  to  take  care  of  yourself  as  far 
as  I  can  see,  but  all  the  same,  mind  what  you  're  doing  when 
you  get  into  their  company  or  you'll  mebbe  get  landed  the 
same  as  me!  .  .  ." 

"Don't  you  like  being  married,  then?" 
"Ah,  quit  codding,"  said  Willie. 


THE  SECOND  BOOK 

OF 
THE  FOOLISH  LOVEES 


Whoever  loved  that  loved  not  at  first  sight. 

MARLOWE. 

"Love  is  a  perfect  fever  of  the  mind.     I  question  if  any  man  has 
been  more  tormented  with  it  than  myself." 

JAMES  BOSWELL  in  a  letter  to  the  Rev.  W.  J.  Temple. 


THE  FIRST  CHAPTER 


MR.  CAIRNDUFF'S  friend,  George  Hinde,  met  John  at  Euston 
Station.  He  was  a  stoutly-built,  red-haired  man,  with  an 
Ulster  accent  that  had  not  been  impaired  in  any  degree  by 
twenty  years  of  association  with  Cocknies.  ' '  How  're  you ! ' ' 
he  said,  going  up  to  John  and  seizing  hold  of  his  hand. 

' '  Rightly,  thank  you !  How  did  you  know  me  ? "  John  re- 
plied, laughing  and  astonished. 

"That's  a  question  and  a  half  to  ask!"  Hinde  exclaimed. 
"Wouldn't  an  Ulsterman  know  another  Ulsterman  the  min- 
ute he  clapped  his  eyes  on  him  ?  Boys  0,  but  it 's  grand  to 
listen  to  a  Belfast  voice  again.  Here  you,"  he  said,  turning 
quickly  to  a  porter,  ' '  come  here,  I  want  you.  Get  this  gen- 
tleman's  luggage,  and  bring  it  to  that  hansom  there.  Do 
you  hear  me  ? " 

"Yessir,"  the  porter  replied. 

' '  What  have  you  got  with  you  ? "  he  went  on,  turning  to 
John. 

' '  A  trunk  and  a  bag, ' '  John  answered.  ' '  They  have  my 
name  on  them.  John  MacDermott!" 

"Mac  what,  sir?"  the  porter  asked. 

"MacDermott.  John  MacDermott.  Passenger  from 
Ballyards  to  London,  via  Belfast  and  Liverpool!" 

"It's  no  good  telling  him  about  Ballyards,"  Hinde  inter- 
rupted. "The  people  of  this  place  are  ignorant:  they've 
never  heard  of  Ballyards.  Go  on,  now, ' '  he  said  to  the  por- 
ter, "and  get  the  stuff  and  bring  it  here!" 

The  porter  hurried  off  to  the  luggage-van.  "I'll  only 
just  be  able  to  put  you  in  the  hansom,"  said  Hinde  to 

149 


150  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

John,  "and  start  you  off  home.  I've  got  to  go  north  to- 
night to  write  a  special  report  of  a  meeting !  .  .  . " 

"What  sort  of  a  meeting?"  John  enquired. 

"Political.  An  address  to  Mugs  by  a  Humbug.  That's 
what  it  ought  to  be  called.  I  was  looking  forward  to  hav- 
ing a  good  crack  with  you  the  night,  but  sure  a  newspaper 
man  need  never  hope  to  have  ten  minutes  to  himself.  I've 
given  Miss  Squibb  orders  to  have  a  good  warm  supper  ready 
for  you.  That 's  a  thing  the  English  people  never  think  of 
having  on  a  Sunday  night.  They're  afraid  God  'ud  send 
them  to  hell  if  they  didn  't  have  cold  beef  for  their  Sunday 
supper.  But  there'll  be  a  hot  supper  for  you,  anyway.  A 
man  that 's  been  travelling  all  night  and  all  day  wants  some- 
thing better  nor  cold  beef  in  his  inside  on  a  cold  night ! ' ' 

"  It 's  very  kind  of  you  !  .  .  . " 

"Ah,  what's  kind  about?  Aren't  you  an  Ulsterman? 
You  've  a  great  accent !  Man,  dear,  but  you  've  a  great  ac- 
cent !  If  ever  you  lose  it  I  '11  never  own  you  for  a  friend, 
and  I  '11  get  you  the  sack  from  any  place  you  're  working  in. 
I'll  blacken  your  character !  ..." 

"You're  a  terrible  cod,"  said  John,  laughing  at  him. 

"Damn  the  cod  there's  about  it!  You  listen  to  these 
Cockney  fellows  talking,  and  then  you'll  understand  me. 
It's  worse  nor  the  Dublin  adenoids  voice.  There's  no  peo- 
ple in  the  earthly  world  talks  as  fine  as  the  Ulster  people. 
Here 's  the  man  with  your  luggage  ! ' '  The  porter  wheeled 
a  truck,  bearing  John's  trunk  and  bag,  up  to  them  as  he 
spoke.  ' '  Is  that  all  you  have  ? ' ' 

"Aye,"  said  John. 

"And  enough,  too!  What  anybody  wants  with  more,  I 
never  can  make  out,  unless  they're  demented  with  the  mania 
of  owning  things!  That's  a  bit  out  of  Walt  Whitman. 
Ever  read  any  of  him?" 

"No,  "said  John. 

"It's  about  time  you  begun  then.  Put  this  stuff  in  the 
hansom,  will  you?"  he  went  on  to  the  porter,  and  while 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  151 

the  porter  did  so,  he  continued  his  conversation  with  John. 
"Miss  Squibb  .  .  .  that's  the  name  of  the  landlady  .  .  . 
comic  name,  isn't  it?  ...  like  a  name  out  of  Dickens  .  .  . 
and  she's  a  comic-looking  woman,  too  .  .  .  hasn't  got  a 
spare  sitting-room  to  let  you  have,  but  you  can  share  mine 
'til  she  has.  My  bedroom's  on  the  same  floor  as  the  sitting- 
room,  but  yours  is  on  the  floor  above.  We're  a  rum  crew 
in  that  house.  There's  a  music-hall  man  and  his  wife  on  the 
ground-floor  ...  a  great  character  altogether  .  .  .  Cream 
is  their  name  .  .  .  and  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tarpey  .  .  .  but 
you'll  see  them  all  for  yourself.  I'll  be  back  on  Tuesday 
night.  Give  this  porter  sixpence,  and  the  cabman's  fare '11 
be  three  and  sixpence,  but  you'd  better  give  him  four  bob. 
If  he  tries  to  charge  you  more  nor  that,  because  you're  a 
stranger,  take  his  number.  Good-bye,  now,  and  don't  for- 
get I'll  be  back  on  Tuesday  night !" 

He  helped  John  into  the  hansom,  and  after  giving  in- 
structions to  the  cabman,  stood  back  on  the  pavement,  smil- 
ing and  waving  his  hand,  while  the  cab,  with  a  flourish  of 
whip  from  the  driver  and  a  jingle  of  harness,  drove  out  of 
the  station. 

"I  like  that  man,"  said  John  to  himself,  as  he  lay  back 
against  the  cushions  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  joy  of  rid- 
ing in  a  hansom  cab. 

ii 

The  house  to  which  John  was  carried  was  in  the  Brixton 
Road,  near  to  the  White  House  public-house.  Fifty  years 
ago  it  had  been  a  rich  merchant's  home  and  was  almost  a 
country  house,  but  now,  like  many  similar  houses,  it  had 
fallen  to  a  dingy  estate :  it  was,  without  embroidery  of  de- 
scription, a  lodging-house.  Miss  Squibb,  who  opened  the 
door  to  him,  had  a  look  of  settled  depression  on  her  face 
that  was  not,  as  he  at  first  imagined,  due  to  disapproval  of 
him,  but,  as  he  speedily  discovered,  to  a  deeply-rooted  con- 


152  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

viction  that  the  rest  of  humanity  was  engaged  in  a  con- 
spiracy to  defraud  her.  She  eyed  the  cabman  with  so  much 
suspicion  that  he  became  uneasy  in  his  mind  and  deposited 
the  trunk  and  the  bag  in  the  hall  in  silence,  nor  did  he  make 
any  comment  on  the  amount  of  his  fare. 

Miss  Squibb  helped  John  to  carry  the  luggage  to  his 
room.  Her  niece,  Lizzie,  who  usually  performed  such 
work,  was  spending  the  week-end  with  another  aunt  in 
North  London,  so  Miss  Squibb  said,  and  she  was  due  to 
return  before  midnight,  but  Miss  Squibb  would  expect  her 
when  she  saw  her.  It  would  not  surprise  her  to  find  that 
Lizzie  did  not  return  to  her  home  until  Monday  evening. 
Nothing  would  surprise  Miss  Squibb.  Miss  Squibb  had 
long  since  ceased  to  be  surprised  at  anything.  No  one  had 
had  more  cause  to  feel  surprised  than  Miss  Squibb  had  had 
in  the  course  of  her  life,  but  now  she  never  felt  surprised  at 
anything.  She  prophesied  that  a  time  would  come  when 
John  would  cease  to  feel  surprise  at  things.  .  .  . 

She  stood  in  the  centre  of  his  bedroom  in  a  bent  attitude, 
with  her  hands  folded  across  her  flat  chest,  and  regarded 
him  with  large,  protruding  eyes.  "You're  Irish,  aren't 
you  ? ' '  she  said,  accusingly. 

"Yes,  Miss  Squibb,"  he  said,  using  her  name  with  diffi- 
culty, because  it  created  in  him  a  desire  to  laugh. 

"Like  Mr.  'Inde?" 

"Inde!"  he  repeated  blankly,  and  then  comprehension 
came  to  him.  ' '  Oh,  Mr.  Hinde !  Yes !  Oh,  yes,  yes ! " 

' '  I  thought  so, ' '  she  continued.  ' '  You  have  the  syme  sort 
of  talk.  Funny  talk,  I  calls  it.  Wot  time  du  want  your 
breakfis?" 

"Eight  o'clock,  "he  said. 

"I  s'pose  you'll  do  syme  as  Mr.  'Inde  .  .  .  leave  it  to  me 
to  get  the  things  for  you,  an '  charge  it  up  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  John  replied.  "I'll  do  just  what  Mr.  Hinde 
does!" 

He  looked  around  the  dingy  room,  and  as  he  did  so,  he 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  153 

felt  depression  coming  over  him ;  but  Miss  Squibb  misjudged 
his  appraising  glance. 

' '  It 's  a  nice  room, ' '  she  said,  as  if  she  were  confirming  his 
judgment  on  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said  dubiously,  glancing  at  the  bed  and  the  ta- 
ble and  the  ricketty  washstand.  There  were  pictures  and 
framed  mottoes  on  the  walls.  Over  his  bed  was  a  large 
motto-card,  framed  in  stained  deal,  bearing  the  word: 
ETERNITY;  and  on  the  opposite  wall,  placed  so  that  he 
should  see  it  immediately  he  awoke,  was  a  coloured  picture 
of  Daniel  in  the  Lions'  Den,  in  which  the  lions  seemed  to  be 
more  dejected  than  Daniel. 

"A  gentleman  wot  used  to  be  a  lodger  'ere  done  that," 
said  Miss  Squibb  when  she  saw  that  he  was  looking  at  the 
picture.  "  'E  couldn't  py  'is  rent  an'  'e  offered  to  pynt 
the  bath-room,  but  we  'aven't  got  a  bath-room  so  'e  pynted 
that  instead.  It  used  to  be  a  plyne  picture  'til  'e  pynted 
it.  'E  sort  of  livened  it  up  a  bit.  Very  nice  gentleman 
'e  was,  only  'e  did  get  so  'orribly  drunk.  Of  course,  'e 
was  artistic!" 

The  drawing  was  out  of  perspective,  and  John  remarked 
upon  the  fact,  but  Miss  Squibb,  fixing  him  with  her  pro- 
truding eyes,  said  that  she  could  not  see  that  there  was  any- 
thing wrong  with  the  picture.  It  was  true,  as  she  ad- 
mitted, that  if  you  were  to  look  closely  at  the  lion  on  the 
extreme  right  of  the  picture,  you  would  find  he  had  two 
tails,  or  rather,  one  tail  and  the  remnant  of  another  which 
the  artist  had  not  completely  obliterated.  But  that  was  a 
trifle. 

"Pictures  ain't  meant  to  be  looked  at  close,"  said  Miss 
Squibb,  "an'  any'ow  you  can't  expect  to  'ave  everythink  in 
this  world.  Some  people's  never  satisfied  without  they're 
finding  fault  in  things!" 

John,  feeling  that  her  final  sentence  was  a  direct 
rebuke  to  himself,  hurriedly  looked  away  from  the  pic- 
ture. 


154  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"There's  a  good  view  from  the  window,"  he  said  to  con- 
sole her  for  his  depreciation  of  the  picture. 

' '  That  ;s  wot  1  often  says  myself, ' '  she  replied.  ' '  People 
says  it 's  'igh  up  'ere  an '  a  long  way  to  climb,  but  wot  I  says 
is,  it 's  'ealthy  when  you  get  'ere,  and  you  'ave  a  view.  I  '11 
leave  you  now,"  she  concluded.  "When  you've  'ad  a  wash, 
your  supper '11  be  waitin'  for  you  in  Mr.  'Inde's  sitting- 
room.  1  expect  you  '11  be  glad  to  'ave  it ! " 

"I  shall,"  he  replied.     "I'm  hungry!" 

"Yes,  I  expect  so,"  she  said,  closing  the  door. 

He  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  again  looked  about  the  room, 
and  the  dreariness  of  it  filled  him  with  nostalgia.  He  had 
not  yet  unpacked  his  trunk  or  his  bag,  and  he  felt  that  he 
must  immediately  carry  them  down  the  stairs  again,  that 
he  must  call  for  a  cabman  and  have  his  luggage  and  him- 
self carried  back  to  Euston  Station  so  that  he  might  return 
to  his  home.  The  clean  air  of  Ballyards  and  the  bright  sun- 
lit bedroom  over  the  shop  seemed  incomparably  lovely  when 
he  looked  about  the  dingy  Brixton  bedroom.  If  this  was 
the  beginning  of  adventure!  .  .  .  He  gazed  at  the  picture 
of  Daniel  in  the  Lions'  Den,  and  wished  that  a  lion  would 
eat  Daniel  or  that  Daniel  would  eat  a  lion !  .  .  . 

Then  he  went  to  the  washstand  and  washed  his  face  and 
hands,  and  when  he  had  done  so,  he  went  downstairs  and 
ate  his  supper. 


ill 

In  the  morning,  there  was  a  thump  on  his  bedroom  door, 
and  before  he  had  had  time  to  consider  what  he  should  do, 
the  door  opened  and  a  girl  entered,  carrying  a  tray. 
"Eight  o'clock,"  she  said,  "an'  'ere's  your  breakfast! 
Aunt  said  you'd  better  'ave  it  in  bed  'smornin',  after  your 
journey ! ' ' 

She  set  the  tray  down  on  the  table  so  carelessly  that  she 
spilled  some  of  the  contents  of  the  coffee-pot. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  155 

"Aunt  forgot  to  ask  would  you  have  tea  or  coffee,  so  she 
sent  up  coffee.  Mr.  'Inde  always  'as  coffee,  so  she  thought 
you  would,  too!  An'  there's  a  'addick.  Mr.  'Inde  likes 
'addick.  It  ain  't  a  bad  fish ! '  » 

John  looked  at  her  as  she  arranged  the  table.  Her 
abrupt  entry  into  the  room,  while  he  was  in  bed,  startled 
him.  No  woman,  except  his  mother,  had  ever  been  in  his 
bedroom  before,  and  it  horrified  him  to  think  that  this 
strange  young  woman  could  see  him  sitting  in  his  night- 
shirt in  bed.  He  had  never  in  his  life  seen  so  untidy  a 
woman  as  this.  Her  hair  had  been  hastily  pinned  together 
in  a  shapeless  lump  on  the  top  of  her  head,  and  loose  ends 
straggled  from  it.  Her  dress  was  on  her  .  .  .  that  was  cer- 
tain .  .  .  but  how  it  was  on  her  was  more  than  he  could 
understand.  She  seemed  to  bristle  with  safety-pins !  .  .  . 

Her  total  lack  of  shame  in  the  presence  of  a  man,  un- 
dressed and  in  bed,  caused  him  to  wonder  whether  she  was 
one  of  the  Bad  Women  against  whom  Mr.  McCaughan  had 
so  solemnly  warned  him.  If  she  were,  the  warning  was 
hardly  necessary !  .  .  . 

' '  I  think  you  got  everythink  ? ' '  she  said  briskly,  glancing 
over  the  table  to  see  that  nothing  was  missing. 

He  saw  now  that  she  bore  some  facial  resemblance  to 
Miss  Squibb.  She  was  not,  as  that  lady  was,  ashen-hued, 
but  her  eyes,  though  less  prominently,  bulged.  This  must 
be  Lizzie !  .  .  . 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked,  as  she  turned  to  leave  the 
room. 

"Eih?" 

4 '  What 's  your  name  ?     I  've  not  seen  you  before ! ' ' 

"Naow,"  she  exclaimed,  "I've  been  awy!  I'm  Lizzie. 
'Er  niece!" 

She  nodded  her  head  towards  the  door,  and  he  interpreted 
this  to  mean  Miss  Squibb. 

1 '  Oh,  yes, ' '  he  said.  ' '  She  told  me  about  you.  Were  you 
very  late  last  night?" 


156  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

She  laughed.  "Naow,"  she  replied,  ''I  was  very  early 
this  mornin'!" 

She  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door.  "If 
you  want  anythink  else,"  she  said,  "just  'oiler  down  the 
stairs  for  it.  An*  you  needn't  'urry  to  get  up.  I  know 
wot  travellin  's  like.  I  've  travelled  a  bit  myself  in  my  time. 
That  'addick  ain  't  as  niffy  as  it  smells !  .  .  . " 

She  closed  the  door  behind  her  and  he  could  hear  her 
quick  steps  all  the  way  down  the  stairs  to  the  ground  floor. 

"That's  a  queer  sort  of  woman,"  he  said  to  himself. 

As  he  ate  his  breakfast,  he  wondered  at  Lizzie's  lack  of 
embarrassment  as  she  stood  in  his  bedroom  and  saw  him 
lying  in  bed.  She  had  behaved  as  coolly  as  if  she  had  been 
in  a  dining-room  and  he  had  been  completely  clothed. 
What  would  his  mother  say  if  she  knew  that  a  girl  had 
entered  his  bedroom  as  unconcernedly  as  if  she  were  en- 
tering a  tramcar?  Never  in  all  his  life  had  such  a  thing 
happened  to  him  before.  He  had  been  very  conscious  of 
his  bare  neck,  for  the  collar  of  his  night-shirt  had  come 
unfastened.  He  had  tried  to  fasten  it  again,  but  in  his  de- 
sire to  do  so  without  drawing  Lizzie 's  attention  to  his  state, 
he  had  merely  fumbled  with  it,  and  had,  finally,  to  abandon 
the  attempt.  What  astonished  him  was  that  Lizzie  ap- 
peared to  be  totally  unaware  of  anything  unusual  in  the 
fact  that  she  was  in  the  bedroom  of  a  strange  man.  She  did 
not  look  like  a  Bad  Woman  .  .  .  and  surely  Mr.  Hinde 
would  not  live  in  a  house  where  Bad  Women  lived!  .  .  . 
Perhaps  Englishwomen  were  not  so  particular  about  things 
as  Irishwomen!  .  .  .  Anyhow  the  haddock  was  good  and 
the  coffee  tasted  nice  enough,  although  he  would  much 
rather  have  had  tea. 

He  finished  his  meal,  and  then  dressed  himself  and  went 
downstairs  to  the  sitting-room  which  he  was  to  share  with 
Hinde.  It  was  less  dreary  than  the  bedroom  from  which  he 
had  just  emerged,  but  what  brightness  it  had  was  not  due  to 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  157 

any  furnishing  provided  by  Miss  Squibb,  but  to  a  great  case 
full  of  books  which  occupied  one  side  of  the  room.  ''He's 
as  groat  a  man  for  books  as  my  Uncle  Matthew,"  John 
thought,  examining  a  volume  here  and  a  volume  there.  He 
opened  a  book  of  poems  by  Walt  Whitman.  "That's  the 
man  he  was  telling  me  about  last  night,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, as  he  turned  the  pages.  He  read  a  passage  aloud: 

Come,  Muse,  migrate  from  Greece  and  Ionia, 

Cross  out,  please,  those  immensely  overpaid  accounts, 

That  matter  of  Troy  and  Achilles'  wrath,  and  sEneas',  Odysseus' 
wanderings, 

Placard  "Removed"  and  "To  Let"  on  the  rocks  of  your  snowy  Par- 
nassus, 

Repeat  at  Jerusalem,  place  the  notice  high  on  Jaffa's  gate  and  on 
Mount  Moriah, 

The  same  on  the  icalls  of  your  German,  French  and  Spanish  castles, 
and  Italian  collections, 

For  know  a  better,  fresher,  busier  sphere,  a  wide,  untried  domain 
awaits,  demands  you. 

"That's  strange  poetry,"  he  murmured,  turning  over 
more  of  the  pages.  "Queer  stuff!  I  never  read  poetry 
like  that  before!"  He  began  to  read  "The  Song  of  the 
Broad  Axe, ' '  at  first  to  himself,  and  then  aloud : 

What  do  you  think  endures f 

Do  you  think  a  great  city  endures  f 

Or  a  teeming  manufacturing  State?  or  a  prepared  Constitutionf  or 

the  best  built  steamshipsf 
Or  hotels  of  granite  and  ironf  or  any  chefs  d'oeuvre  of  engineering, 

forts,  armamentsf 

Away!  these  are  not  to  be  cherished  for  themselves, 
They  fill  their  hour,  the  dancers  dance,  the  musicians  play  for  them, 
The  show  passes,  all  does  well,  of  course, 
All  does  very  well  till  one  flash  of  defiance. 
A  great  city  is  that  which  has  the  greatest  men  and  women, 
If  it  be  a  few  ragged  huts,  it  is  still  the  greatest  city  in  the  world. 
How  beggarly  appear  arguments  before  a  defiant  deed! 
How  the  floridness  of  the  materials  of  cities  shrivels  before  a  man's 

or  woman's  look ! 


158  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

He  re-read  aloud  the  last  four  lines,  and  then  closed  the 
book  and  replaced  it  on  the  shelf.  "That  man  must  have 
been  terribly  angry,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Lizzie  came  into  the  room.  "I  'card  you,"  she  said, 
"syin'  poetry  to  yourself.  You're  as  bad  as  Mr.  'Inde, 
you  are.  'E's  an'  awful  one  for  syin'  poetry.  Why 
down't  you  go  out  for  a  walk?  You  'aven't  seen  nothink 
of  London  yet,  an'  'ere  you  are  wystin'  the  mornin'  syin' 
poetry.  If  I  was  you,  now,  I'd  go  and  see  the  Tahr  of 
London  where  they  used  to  be'ead  people.  An'  the  Monu- 
ment, too !  You  can  go  up  that  for  thruppence.  An '  the 
view  you  get!  Miles  an'  miles  an'  miles!  Well,  you  can 
see  the  Crystal  Palace  anywy !  I  do  like  a  view !  Or  if 
you  down't  like  the  Tahr  of  London,  you  could  go  to  the 
Zoo.  Ow,  the  monkeys!  Ow,  dear!  They're  so  yooman,  I 
felt  quite  uncomfortable.  Any'ow,  I  should  go  out  if  I  was 
you,  an'  'ave  a  look  at  London.  Wot's  the  good  of  comin' 
to  London  if  you  don 't  'ave  a  look  at  it ! " 

"I  think  I  will,"  said  John. 

"I  should,"  Lizzie  added  emphatically.  "I  don't  sup- 
pose we'll  see  you  until  dinner  time.  Seven  o'clock,  we 
'ave  it!" 

"I  always  had  my  dinner  in  the  middle  of  the  day  at 
home, ' '  John  replied. 

' '  Ow,  yes,  in  Ireland, ' '  said  Lizzie  tolerantly.  ' '  But  this 
is  London.  London's  different  from  Ireland,  you  know. 
You'll  find  things  very  diff 'rent  'ere  from  wot  they  are  in 
Ireland.  I've  'eard  a  lot  about  Ireland.  Mr.  'Inde  .  .  . 
'e  does  go  on  about  it.  Anybody  would  think  to  'ear  'im 
there  wasn't  any  other  plyce  in  the  world!  ..."  She 
changed  the  subject  abruptly,  speaking  in  a  more  hurried 
tone.  "I  ought  reely  to  be  dustin'  this  room  .  .  .  only  of 
course  you  're  in  it ! " 

John  apologised  to  her.  "I'm  interfering  with  your 
work,"  he  murmured  in  confusion. 

' '  Ow,  no  you  ain  't.     It  don 't  matter  if  it 's  dusted  or  not 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  159 

.  .  .  reely.  Only  Aunt  goes  on  about  it.  Mr.  'Inde 
wouldn't  notice  if  it  was  never  dusted.  I  think  he  likes 
dust  reely.  I  suppose  you're  goin'  to  do  some  work  now 
you're  'ere,  or  are  you  a  writer,  too,  like  Mr.  'Inde?" 

"I  want  to  be  a  writer,"  John  shyly  answered. 

"Well,  there's  no  'arm  in  it,"  Lizzie  said.  "But  it  ain't 
reg'lar.  I  believe  in  reg'lar  work  myself.  Of  course, 
there's  no  'arm  in  bein'  a  writer,  but  you'd  be  much  better 
with  a  tryde  or  a  nice  business,  I  should  think.  Reely !" 

"Oh,  yes,"  John  murmured.  "Well,  I  think  I'll  go  out 
now!" 

"Are  you  goin'  to  the  Tahr,  then?" 

"No,"  he  answered.  "No,  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  I 
want  to  see  Fleet  Street !  .  .  . " 

"Fleet  Street!"  Lizzie  exclaimed.  "Wotever  is  there 
to  see  there." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     I  want  to  see  it.     That's  all!" 

"You  'ave  got  funny  tyste.  I  should  'ave  thought  you'd 
go  to  see  the  Tahr  reely!  ..."  She  broke  off  as  she  ob- 
served him  moving  to  the  door.  "Mind,  be  back  at  seven 
sharp.  I  'ate  the  dinner  kep'  'angin'  about.  I  don't  get 
no  time  to  myself  if  people  aren't  punctual.  'Mr.  'Inde's 
awful,  'e  is.  'E  don't  care  about  no  one  else,  'e  don't. 
Comes  in  any  time,  'e  does,  an'  expects  a  'ot  dinner  just 
the  syme.  Never  thinks  nobody  else  never  wants  to  go  no- 
where! ..." 

"I'll  be  back  in  time,"  said  John,  hurrying  from  the 
room. 

"Well,  mind  you  are,"  she  called  after  him. 


IV 

In  the  street,  he  remembered  that  he  had  forgotten  to 
ask  Lizzie  to  tell  him  how  to  find  Fleet  Street,  but  her  ca- 
pacity for  conversation  prevented  him  from  returning  to 
the  house  to  ask  her.  The  number  of  trams  and  'buses  of 


160  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

different  colours  bewildered  him,  as  he  stood  opposite  to 
the  White  Horse,  and  watched  them  go  by ;  and  the  accents 
of  the  conductors,  when  they  called  out  their  destinations, 
were  unintelligible  to  him.  He  heard  a  man  shouting 
"Beng,  Beng,  Beng,  Beng,  Beng,  BENGK!"  in  a  voice 
that  sounded  like  a  quick-firing  gun,  but  the  noise  had  no 
meaning  for  him.  He  saw  names  of  places  that  were  famil- 
iar to  him  through  his  reading  or  his  talk  with  Uncle  Mat- 
thew, painted  on  the  side  of  the  trams  and  'buses,  but  he 
could  not  see  the  name  of  Fleet  Street  among  them.  He 
turned  to  a  policeman  and  asked  for  advice,  and  the  police- 
man put  him  in  the  care  of  a  'bus-conductor. 

"You  'op  on  top,  an'  I'll  tell  you  where  to  git  off,"  the 
'bus  conductor  said,  and  John  did  as  he  was  bid. 

He  took  a  seat  in  the  front  of  the  'bus,  just  behind  the 
driver,  for  he  had  often  heard  stories  of  the  witty  sayings 
of  London  'busmen  and  he  was  anxious  to  hear  a  'bus- 
driver  's  wit  being  uttered. 

"That's  a  nice  day,"  he  said,  when  the  'bus  had  gone 
some  distance. 

The  driver,  red-faced,  obese  and  sleepy-eyed,  slowly 
turned  and  regarded  John,  and  having  done  so,  nodded  his 
head,  and  turned  away  again. 

"Nice  pair  of  horses  you  have,"  John  continued  affably. 

"Yes,"  the  driver  grunted,  without  looking  around. 

John  felt  dashed  by  the  morose  manner  of  the  driver  and 
he  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments,  but  he  leant  forward 
again  and  said,  ' '  I  expect  you  see  a  good  deal  of  life  on  this 
'bus?" 

"Eih?"  said  the  driver,  glancing  sharply  at  him.  "Wot 
you  sy  ? " 

"I  suppose  you've  seen  a  good  many  queer  things  from 
that  seat?"  John  answered. 

' '  'Ow  you  mean  .  .  .  queer  things  ?  * ' 

"Well,  strange  things!  ..." 

The  driver  turned  away  and  whipped  up  the  horses. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  161 

"I've  never  seen  anythink  strynge  in  my  life,"  he  said. 
' '  Kimmup  there !  Kimmup !  .  .  . " 

"But  I  thought  that  'bus-drivers  always  saw  romantic 
things!" 

"I  dunno  wot  you're  talkin'  abaht.  Look  'ere,  young 
feller,  are  you  a  reporter,  or  wot  are  you  1 ' ' 

"A  reporter!" 

' '  Yus.     One  of  these  'ere  noospyper  chaps  ? ' ' 

"No." 

"Well,  anybody 'd  think  you  was,  you  ast  so  many  ques- 
tions!" 

John's  face  coloured.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  in 
confusion.  "I  didn't  mean  to  be  inquisitive!" 

"That's  awright.  No  need  to  'pologise.  I  can  see  you 
down't  mean  no  'arm!"  His  manner  relaxed  a  little,  as 
if  he  would  atone  to  John  for  his  former  surliness.  ' '  That 's 
the  'Orns,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  large  public-house. 
"Well-known  'ouse,  that  is.  Best  known  'ouse  in  Sahth 
London,  that  is.  Bert  .  .  .  that's  the  conductor  .  .  .  'e 
says  the  White  'Orse  at  Brixton  is  better-known,  an'  I  know 
a  chep  wot  says  the  Elephant  an'  Castle  is!  .  .  ." 

"It's  mentioned  in  Shakespeare,"  John  eagerly  inter- 
rupted. 

"Wot  is?" 

"  The  Elephant  and  Castle.  In  Twelfth  Night.  My  Un- 
cle, who  knew  Shakespeare  by  heart,  told  me  about  it.  It 
was  a  public-house  in  those  days,  too.  But  I  never  heard 
of  the  Horns!" 

The  'bus-driver  was  impressed  by  this  statement,  but  he 
would  not  lightly  yield  in  the  argument.  "Of  course," 
he  said,  "The  Elephant  my  'ave  been  well-known  in  them 
dys,  and  I  don't  sy  it  ain't  well-known  in  these  dys,  but 
I  do  sy  thet  it  ain  't  so  well-known  now  as  wot  the  'Orns  is. 
There  ain't  a  music- 'all  chep  in  London  wot  down't  know 
the  'Orns.  Not  one!" 

"Shakespeare  didn't  know  it,"  John  exclaimed. 


162  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Well,  'e  didn't  know  everythink,  did  'e?"  the  driver 
retorted.  "P'raps  the  'Orns  wasn't  built  then.  I  dessay 
not.  'E'd  'ave  mentioned  it  if  Vd  'ave  known  abaht  it. 
All  these  actor  cheps  know  it,  so  of  course  'e'd  'a'  known 
abaht  it,  too.  We'll  be  at  the  Elephant  presently.  I  al- 
ways sy  to  Bert  we  'ave  the  most  interestin'  pubs  in  Lon- 
don on  this  route.  White  'Orse,  the  'Orns,  the  Elephant 
an'  the  Ayngel.  Ever  'card  of  the  Ayngel  at  Islington?" 

"Yes,"  said  John.  "That's  where  Paine  wrote  The 
Rights  of  Man!" 

' '  Did  'e  ? "  the  driver  answered.  ' '  Well,  I  dessay  'e  did. 
It's  a  celebrated  'ouse,  it  is.  Celebrated  in  'istory. 
There 's  a  song  abaht  it.  You  know  it,  down 't  you  ?  .  .  . 

Up  and  dahn  the  City  Kowd, 
In  at  the  Ayngel  .  .  . 
Thet's  the  wy  the  money  gows, 
Pop  gows  the  weasel. 

"Ever  'eard  theU" 

"Oh,  yes,"  John  replied,  smiling  ."I  used  to  sing  that 
song  at  home ! ' ' 

' '  Did  you  nah.    An '  w  'ere  is  your  'ome  ? ' ' 

"In  Ireland!" 

"Ow!  Thet  acahnts  for  it.  I  couldn't  myke  aht  'ow  it 
was  you  never  'eard  of  the  'Orns.  Fency  you  'earin'  abaht 
the  Elephant  in  Ireland ! ' ' 

"Well,  you  see,  Shakespeare  mentions  it!  .  .  ." 

"I  down't  tyke  much  interest  in  'im.  'Ere's  the  Ele- 
phant! Thet's  Spurgeon's  Tabernacle  over  there!  ..." 

The  driver  became  absorbed  in  the  business  of  pulling 
up  at  the  stopping-place  and  alluring  fresh  passengers  on 
to  the  'bus  in  place  of  those  who  were  now  leaving  it,  and 
John  had  time  to  look  about  him.  The  public-house  was 
big  and  garish  and  even  at  this  hour  of  the  morning  the 
hot  odour  of  spirits  floated  out  of  it  when  a  door  was 
swung  open.  "I  don't  suppose  it  was  like  that  in  Shakes- 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  163 

peare's  day,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  turned  away  and 
gazed  at  the  flow  of  people  and  traffic  that  passed  without 
ceasing  through  the  circus  where  the  six  great  roads  of 
South  London  meet  and  cross.  It  seemed  to  him  that  an 
accident  must  happen,  that  these  streams  of  carts  and  trams 
and  'buses  and  hurrying  people  must  become  so  involved 
that  disaster  must  follow.  He  became  reassured  when  he 
observed  how  unperturbed  everyone  was.  There  were  mo- 
ments when  the  whole  traffic  seemed  to  become  chaotic  and 
the  roads  were  choked,  and  then  as  suddenly  as  the  conges- 
tion was  created,  it  was  relieved.  He  felt  enthralled  by  this 
wonder  of  traffic,  of  great  crowds  moving  with  ease  through 
a  criss-cross  of  confusing  streets. 

"It's  wonderful,"  he  said,  leaning  forward  and  speak- 
ing almost  in  a  whisper  to  the  driver. 

"Wot  is?" 

"All  that  traffic!" 

"Ow,  thet's  nothink.  We  think  nothink  of  thet  owver 
'ere, ' '  the  driver  replied.  ' '  We  down 't  tyke  no  notice  of  a 
little  lot  like  thet!" 

The  conductor  rang  his  bell,  and  the  driver  whipped  up 
his  horses,  and  the  'bus  proceeded  on  its  way. 

John  remembered  that  he  had  not  heard  any  witticisms 
from  the  driver.  Uncle  Matthew  had  told  him  that  one 
could  always  depend  upon  a  'busman  to  provide  comic  en- 
tertainment, but  this  man,  although,  after  a  while,  he  had 
become  talkative  enough,  had  not  said  one  funny  thing. 
He  had  not  chaffed  a  policeman  or  a  footpassenger  or  an- 
other 'busman,  and  now  that  they  had  passed  away  from 
the  Elephant  and  Castle,  his  conversation  seemed  to  have 
dried  up.  The  'bus  tooled  through  the  Newington  Butts, 
along  the  Borough  High  Street  (past  the  very  inn  where 
Mr.  Pickwick  first  met  Sam  Weller,  although  John  was 
then  unaware  that  he  was  passing  it)  and  under  the 
railway  bridge  at  St.  Saviour's  Cathedral  Church  of 
Southwark. 


164  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"What's  that  place  ?"  John  said  to  the  driver,  pointing  to 
the  Cathedral. 

"Eih?     Ow,  thet!     Thet's  a  cathedral!" 

"A  cathedral!     Hidden  away  like  that!  ..." 

A  hideous  railway  bridge  cramped  St.  Saviour's  on  one 
side,  and  hideous  warehouses  and  offices  cramped  it  on  the 
other.  There  was  a  mess  of  vegetable  debris  lying  about 
the  Cathedral  pavement,  the  refuse  from  the  Borough  Mar- 
ket. 

"What  cathedral  is  it?"  John  demanded. 

' '  Southwark ! ' '  the  driver  replied,  pronouncing  it ' '  Suth- 
ark." 

"Suthark!"  John  said  vaguely.  "Do  you  mean  South- 
wark ?  .  .  . "  He  pronounced  the  name  as  it  is  spelt. 

"We  call  it  Suthark!"  said  the  driver.  "Yes,  thet's  it. 
Southwark  Cathedral!  ..." 

"But  that's  where  Shakespeare  used  to  go  to  church!" 
John  exclaimed. 

"Ow!"  the  driver  replied. 

"And  look  at  it!  .  .  ." 

"Wot's  wrong  with  it?"  The  'bus  was  now  rolling  over 
London  Bridge,  and  the  Cathedral  could  not  be  seen. 

"They've  hidden  it.     That  awful  bridge!  ..." 

"I  down't  see  nothink  wrong  with  it,"  the  driver  inter- 
rupted. 

"Nothing  wrong  with  it!  You'd  think  they  were 
ashamed  of  it,  they've  hidden  it  so!" 

"I  down't  see  nothink  wrong  with  it.  Wot  you  gettin' 
so  excited  abaht?" 

"Shakespeare  said  his  prayers  there!"  John  ejaculated. 

"Well,  wot  if  'e  did?"  the  driver  replied.  "We  down't 
think  nothink  of  Cathedrals  owver  'ere!  We've  got  'un- 
dreds  of  'em !" 

John  sat  back  in  his  seat  and  stared  at  the  driver.  He 
was  incapable  of  speaking,  and  the  driver,  busy  with  his 
horses,  said  no  more.  The  'bus  crossed  the  river,  drove 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  165 

along  King  William  Street  into  Prince's  Street,  and 
stopped.  The  conductor  climbed  to  the  roof  and  called  to 
John.  "You  chynge  'ere,"  he  said,  beckoning  him. 

1 '  Good-morning, ' '  John  said  to  the  driver  as  he  rose  from 
his  seat. 

' '  Goo  '-mornin ' ! "  said  the  driver.  He  paused  while  John 
got  out  of  the  seat  into  the  gangway.  "You  know,"  he 
went  on,  "you  wown't  git  so  excited  abaht  things  after 
you  bin  'ere  a  bit.  You'll  tyke  things  more  calm.  Like 
me.  I  down 't  go  an '  lose  my  'ead  abaht  Shykespeare !  .  .  . " 

"Good-morning,"  said  John. 

"Ow,  goo '-mornin'!"  said  the  driver. 

The  conductor  was  standing  on  the  pavement  when  John 
descended. 

"You'll  get  a  'bus  owver  there  at  the  Mansion  'Ouse, "  he 
said,  "thet'll  tyke  you  right  into  Fleet  Street.  Or  you 
can  walk  it  easy  from  'ere.  'Long  Cheapside,  just  rahnd 
the  corner!  ..." 

"Cheapside!"  John  said  with  interest.  Uncle  Matthew 
had  told  him  that  Herrick,  the  poet,  was  born  in  Cheapside, 
and  that  Richard  Whittington,  resting  in  Highgate  Woods, 
had  heard  Bow  Bells  pealing  from  a  Cheapside  steeple, 
bidding  him  return  to  be  Lord  Mayor  of  London  and  marry 
the  mercer's  daughter. 

"Yus,  Cheapside!"  the  conductor  dully  repeated.  "Go 
'long  Cheapside,  turn  to  the  left  pas'  St.  Paul's,  and 
you  '11  be  in  Ludgate  '111.  After  thet,  follow  your  nowse ! 
See?" 

"Thank  you!"  said  John. 

The  throng  of  traffic  seemed  to  be  greater  here  than  it 
had  been  at  Elephant  and  Castle,  and  John,  confused  by 
it,  stood  looking  about  him.  ' '  Thet 's  the  Benk  of  England, 
thet!"  the  conductor  hurriedly  continued,  pointing  across 
the  street  to  the  low,  squat,  dirty-looking  building  which 
occupied  the  whole  of  one  side  of  the  street.  "An'  thet's 
the  Royal  Exchynge  owver  there,  an'  this  'ere  is  the  Man' 


166  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

sion  'Ouse  where  the  Lord  Mayor  lives.  I  can 't  stop  to  tell 
you  no  more.  Ayngel,  Ayngel,  Ayngel !  Any  more  for  the 
Ayngel? 

Several  persons  climbed  on  to  the  'bus,  and  then,  after  at- 
tempting to  persuade  people,  anxious  to  go  to  Charing 
Cross,  to  go  to  the  Angel  at  Islington  instead,  the  conduc- 
tor rang  his  bell.  He  waved  his  hand  in  farewell  to  John, 
who  smiled  at  him.  The  'bus  lumbered  off.  John  watched 
it  roll  out  of  sight  and,  when  it  had  gone,  turned  to  find 
Cheapside.  There  was  an  immense  pressure  of  people  in 
the  streets,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  imagined  that  he  had 
wandered  into  the  middle  of  a  procession. 

' '  Is  there  anything  up  ? "  he  said  to  a  lounger. 

"Up?"  the  man  repeated  in  a  puzzled  tone. 

"Yes.     All  these  people!  ..." 

' '  Oh,  no, ' '  the  man  said.     "  It 's  always  like  this ! ' ' 

Always  like  this!  .  .  . 

He  had  never  seen  so  many  people  or  so  much  traffic  be- 
fore. The  crowd  of  workmen  pouring  out  of  the  shipyards 
in  Belfast  was  more  impressive  than  this  London  crowd, 
but  not  so  perturbing,  for  that  was  a  definite  crowd,  having 
a  beginning  and  an  end  and  a  meaning:  it  was  composed 
entirely  of'  men  engaged  in  a  common  enterprise ;  but  this 
crowd  had  no  beginning  and  no  end  and  no  meaning :  there 
was  no  common  enterprise.  It  was  an  amorphous  herd,  and 
almost  it  frightened  him.  If  that  herd  were  to  become  ex- 
cited ...  to  lose  its  head!  .  .  .  Hardly  had  the  thought 
come  into  his  mind  when  an  accident  happened.  A  four- 
wheeler  cab,  trundling  across  Mansion  House  Place  towards 
Liverpool  Street,  overbalanced  and  fell  on  its  side.  The 
driver  was  thrown  into  the  road,  and  John,  imagining  that 
he  must  be  killed  by  a  passing  vehicle,  shut  his  eyes  so  that 
he  might  not  see  the  horrible  thing  happen.  .  .  .  When  he 
opened  his  eyes  again,  the  driver  was  on  his  feet  and,  as- 
sisted by  policemen  and  some  passers-by,  was  freeing 
his  horse  from  its  harness,  while  two  other  policemen 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  167 

dragged  an  old  lady  through  the  window  of  the  cab  and 
placed  her  on  the  pavement. 

"Really,  driver!"  she  said,  "you  ought  to  be  more  care- 
ful. I  shall  lose  my  train!" 

"You'd  think  I'd  done  it  a-purpose  to  'ear  'er,"  the 
driver  mumbled. 

And  the  traffic  swept  by  on  either  side  of  the  overturned 
cab,  and  there  was  no  confusion,  no  excitement,  no  disas- 
ter. The  careless  traffic  of  the  streets  which  seemed  so 
likely  to  end  in  disorder  never  ended  otherwise  than  satis- 
factorily. There  was  control  over  it,  but  the  control  was 
not  obtrusive. 

He  felt  reassured  in  a  measure,  but  a  sense  of  loneliness 
filled  him.  He  stood  with  his  back  against  the  wall  of  a 
large  building  and  regarded  the  scene.  Wherever  he 
looked  there  were  masses  of  people  and  vehicles  and  tall 
buildings.  Crowds  and  crowds  of  people  with  no  common 
interest  save  that  of  speedily  reaching  a  destination.  He 
might  stand  there  for  hours,  with  his  back  to  this  wall,  and 
not  see  the  end  of  that  crowd.  In  Belfast,  at  twelve  o  'clock 
on  Saturday  morning,  the  workmen  would  hurry  over  the 
bridge  to  their  homes :  a  thick,  black,  unyielding  mass  of 
men ;  but  at  thirty  minutes  after  twelve,  that  thick,  black, 
seemingly  solid  mass  would  be  dissolved  into  the  ordinary 
groupings  of  a  provincial  city  and  there  would  be  no  sign 
of  it.  This  London  crowd  would  never  dissolve.  The  man 
had  told  him  that  "  it 's  always  like  this " !  .  .  .  There  were 
nearly  seven  millions  of  men  and  women  and  children  in 
London,  but  he  did  not  know  one  of  them.  He  had  seen 
George  Hinde  for  a  few  moments,  and  he  had  spoken  to 
Miss  Squibb  and  to  Lizzie  .  .  .  but  he  did  not  know  any- 
one. He  was  alone  in  this  seven-million-fold  herd,  without 
a  relative  or  an  intimate  friend.  He  might  stand  at  this 
corner  for  days,  for  weeks,  on  end,  viewing  the  passersby 
until  his  eyes  were  sore  with  the  sight  of  them,  and  never 
see  one  person  whom  he  knew  even  slightly.  In  Bally ards, 


168  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

he  could  not  walk  a  dozen  yards  without  encountering  an 
acquaintance.  In  Belfast,  he  was  certain  to  see  someone 
whom  he  knew  in  the  course  of  a  day.  But  in  this  place ! 
.  .  .  He  became  horrified  at  the  thought  that  if  he  were  sud- 
denly to  drop  dead  at  that  moment,  none  of  the  persons  who 
would  gather  round  his  body  could  say  who  he  was.  He 
would  be  carried  off  to  a  morgue  and  laid  on  a  marble 
slab  in  the  hope  that  someone  would  turn  up  and  identify 
him  .  .  .  and  he  might  never  be  identified;  he  might  be 
buried  as  "a  person  unknown."  He  determined  to  keep  a 
note  of  his  name  and  address  in  his  breast-pocket,  together 
with  a  note  of  his  mother's  name  and  address. 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  run  the  risk  of  them  burying  me  with- 
out knowing  who  I  am, ' '  he  murmured  to  himself. 

Some  one  jostled  him  roughly,  and  mumbling  "Sorry!" 
hurried  on.  In  Ireland,  John  thought  to  himself,  had  a 
man  jostled  a  stranger  so  rudely,  he  would  have  stopped 
and  apologised  to  him  and  would  have  asked  for  assurance 
that  he  had  not  hurt  him.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he 
would  have  said.  ' '  I  'm  very  sorry.  I  hope  I  haven 't  hurt 
you ! ' '  But  this  stranger  who  had  roughly  shoved  against 
him,  had  not  paused  in  his  rude  progress.  He  had  shouted 
"Sorry!"  at  him,  but  he  had  barely  turned  his  head  to 
do  it. 

' '  Of  course,  I  ought  not  to  be  standing  here,  blocking  the 
way!"  John  admitted  to  himself.  "I  wonder  is  London 
always  like  this,  rough  and  in  a  hurry ! ' ' 

He  crossed  the  street,  not  without  alarm,  and  stood  by 
the  entrance  to  the  Central  London  Railway.  There  were 
some  flower-sellers  sitting  by  the  railings,  but  they  had  no 
resemblance  to  the  flower-girls  of  whom  Uncle  Matthew  had 
often  told  him.  He  glanced  at  them  with  distaste.  "It's 
queer,"  he  thought,  "how  disappointed  I  am  with  every- 
thing ! ' '  and  then,  as  if  he  would  account  f of  his  disappoint- 
ment, he  added,  "I'm  bitter.  That's  what's  wrong  with 
me !  I  'm  bitter  about  Maggie  Carmichael ! ' ' 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  169 

He  turned  to  a  man  who  was  leaning  against  the  iron 
railings.  "What's  down  there?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the 
stairs  leading  to  the  Central  London  Railway. 

"The  Toob,"  said  the  man. 

"The  what?" 

"The  Toob.     The  Tuppeny  Toob.     Undergrahnd  Ryle- 


wy 


i" 


"Oh,  is  that  what  you  call  the  Tuppeny  Tube?"  John 
exclaimed,  as  comprehension  came  to  him.  He  had  read  of 
the  Underground  Railway  built  in  the  shape  of  two  long 
tubes  stretching  from  the  centre  of  the  City  to  Shepherd's 
Bush,  but  he  had  imagined  a  much  more  dramatic  entrance 
to  it  than  this  dull  flight  of  steps. 

"But  you  walk  into  it,"  he  exclaimed  to  his  informant. 

"There's  lifts  down  below,"  the  man  replied  unemotion- 
ally. 

"I  thought  it  would  be  different,"  John  continued. 

"Different?     'Ow  .  .  .  different?" 

"Well  .  .  .  different!" 

The  man  spat.  "I  down't  see  wot  more  you  could  ex- 
pect," he  said.  "It's  there,  ain't  it?  Wot  more  du 
want?" 

"Oh,  it's  there,  of  course  .  .  .  only!  ..." 

The  man  interrupted  him.  "Wot's  a  toob  for?"  he  said. 
He  answered  his  own  question.  "To  travel  by.  Well,  you 
can  travel  by  it.  Wot  more  du  want?" 

"But  I  thought  it  would  be  exciting!  ..." 

"An'  'oo  the  'ell  wants  excitement  in  a  toob!"  the  man 
answered. 

John  considered  the  matter  for  a  moment  or  two.  "I 
expect  you're  right,"  he  said,  and  then,  more  briskly, 
added,  "Yes,  of  course.  Of  course,  you're  right.  Travel- 
ling in  a  train  would  not  be  pleasant  if  it  were  excit- 
ing." 

"It  would  not,"  the  man  answered. 

"But  it  sounded  such  an  extraordinary  thing,  a  Tube, 


170  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

when  I  read  about  it  that  I  expected  to  see  something1 
different, ' '  John  continued. 

"Well,  it  is  an  extraordinary  thing,"  the  man  said. 
"You  walk  down  them  steps  there,  an'  get  into  a  lift,  an' 
wot  '11  'appen  to  you  ?  You  '11  be  dropped  'undreds  of  feet 
into  the  earth,  an'  when  you  get  to  the  bottom,  you'll  find 
trains  runnin'  by  electricity.  I  call  that  extraordinary,  if 
you  down't  .  .  .  only  I  down't  want  to  myke  a  song  abaht 
it!" 

John  felt  that  he  had  been  rebuked  for  an  excess  of  en- 
thusiasm. The  Englishman  was  right  about  the  Tube.  It 
was  a  wonderful  thing,  more  wonderful,  perhaps,  because 
of  the  quietness  of  its  approach :  it  would  not  be  any  more 
wonderful  if  people  were  to  go  about  the  town  uttering 
shouts  of  astonishment  over  it,  nor  was  it  any  less  wonder- 
ful because  the  English  people  treated  it  as  if  it  were  an 
ordinary  affair. 

He  looked  across  the  road  at  the  Bank  of  England,  devoid 
equally  of  dignity  and  sensation,  and  then  turned  and 
looked  at  the  Royal  Exchange.  A  pigeon  flew  up  from  the 
ground  and  perched  among  the  figures  carved  over  the  por- 
tico, and  as  he  watched  it,  he  read  the  inscription  beneath 
the  figure  of  Justice:  The  Earth  is  the  Lord's  and  the 
Fullness  Thereof. 

"Dear  me!"  he  said,  turning  away  again. 

He  began  to  feel  hungry,  and  he  moved  away  to  search 
for  a  place  in  which  to  find  a  meal. 

' '  Good-morning, ' '  he  said  to  the  man  who  had  instructed 
him  concerning  the  Tube. 

"Oh,  goo'-mornin'!" 


He  walked  along  Queen  Victoria  Street  and,  without  con- 
sidering what  he  was  doing,  turned  into  a  narrow  street 
that  ran  off  it  at  an  angle  of  seventy-five  degrees.  It  was 
a  perilous  street  to  traverse  for  every  building  in  it  seemed 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  171 

to  have  a  crane  near  its  roof,  and  every  crane  seemed  to 
have  a  heavy  bale  dangling  from  it  in  mid-air;  and  from 
the  narrow  pavement  cellar  flaps  were  raised  so  that  an 
unwary  person  might  suddenly  find  himself  descending  into 
deep,  dark  holes  in  the  ground.  The  roadway  was  occu- 
pied by  lorries,  and  John  had  to  turn  and  cross,  and  cross 
and  turn  many  times  before  he  could  extricate  himself  from 
the  labyrinth  into  which  he  had  so  carelessly  intruded. 
While  he  was  crossing  the  street  at  one  point,  and  passing 
between  two  lorries,  he  found  himself  in  front  of  a  coffee- 
house, and  again  aware  of  his  hunger,  he  entered  it.  He 
passed  to  the  back  of  the  L-shaped  shop,  and  sat  down  at  a 
small  marble-topped  table  and  waited  for  a  waitress  to  come 
and  take  his  order.  There  was  a  girl  sitting  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table,  but  he  did  not  observe  her  particularly, 
for  her  head  was  bent  over  a  letter  which  she  was  reading. 
He  looked  about  him.  The  room  was  full  of  men  and  young 
women,  all  eating  or  waiting  to  eat,  and  from  a  corner  of 
the  room  came  a  babble  of  conversation  carried  on  by  a 
group  of  young  clerks,  and  while  John  looked  at  them,  a 
waitress  came  to  him,  and  said,  "Yes,  sir !" 

He  looked  up  at  her  hurriedly.  "Oh,  I  want  something 
to  eat!"  he  said.  She  waited  for  him  to  proceed.  "What 
have  you?"  he  asked.  She  handed  a  bill  of  fare  to  him, 
and  he  glanced  through  it,  feeling  incapable  of  choice. 

"The  sausages  are  very  nice,"  the  waitress  suggested. 

"I'll  have  sausages,"  he  replied,  thankful  for  the  sug- 
gestion. 

"Two?" 

He  nodded  his  head. 

' '  Tea  or  coffee  ? ' ' 

' '  Tea,  please.    And  a  roll  and  butter ! ' ' 

The  waitress  left  him,  and  he  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and 
now  he  regarded  the  bent  head  of  the  girl  sitting  opposite 
to  him,  and  as  he  did  so,  she  looked  up  and  their  eyes  met. 
She  looked  away. 


172  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"What  lovely  eyes  she  has,"  John  said  to  himself. 

She  stood  up  as  he  thought  this,  and  prepared  to  leave 
the  restaurant,  and  he  saw  again  that  her  eyes  were  very 
beautiful :  blue  eyes  that  had  a  dark  look  in  them ;  and  he 
said  to  himself  that  a  woman  who  had  beautiful  eyes  had 
everything.  He  wished  that  he  had  come  earlier  to  the 
restaurant  or  that  she  had  come  later,  so  that  they  might 
have  sat  opposite  to  each  other  for  a  longer  time.  He  lis- 
tened while  she.  asked  the  waitress  for  her  bill.  The  soft- 
ness of  her  voice  was  like  gentle  music.  He  thought  of  the 
tiny  noise  of  a  small  stream,  of  the  song  of  a  bird  heard  at 
a  distance,  of  leaves  slightly  stirring  in  a  quiet  wind,  and 
told  himself  that  the  sound  of  her  voice  had  the  quality 
of  all  these.  He  wondered  what  it  was  that  brought  her  to 
the  City  of  London.  Perhaps  she  was  employed  in  an  of- 
fice. Perhaps  she  had  come  up  to  do  some  shopping.  .  .  . 
She  moved  away,  and  as  she  did  so,  he  saw  that  she  had  left 
her  letter  lying  on  the  table.  He  leant  over  and  picked  it 
up,  reading  the  name  written  on  the  envelope :  Miss  Eleanor 
Moore.  He  got  up  and  hurried  after  her. 

The  restaurant  was  a  narrow  cramped  one,  and  it  was 
not  easy  for  him  to  make  his  way  through  the  people  who 
were  entering  or  leaving  it,  and  he  feared  that  he  would  not 
be  able  to  catch  up  with  her  before  she  had  reached  the 
street.  Customers  in  that  restaurant,  however,  had  to  stop 
at  the  counter  to  pay  their  bills,  and  so  he  reached  her  in 
time. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said.  "I  think  you  left  this  letter  be- 
hind you." 

She  looked  up  in  a  startled  manner,  and  then  seeing  the 
letter  which  he  held  out  to  her,  smiled  and  said,  ' '  Oh,  thank 
you !  Thank  you  very  much.  I  left  it  on  the  table  ! ' ' 

She  took  it  from  him,  and  put  it  in  a  pocket  of  her  coat. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  she  said  again,  and  turned 
to  take  her  change  from  the  man  behind  the  counter. 

John  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  at  her,  and  then,  re- 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  173 

membering  his  manners,  went  back  to  his  seat  and  began  to 
eat  his  meal  of  tea  and  bread  and  butter  and  sausages. 

' '  Eleanor  Moore ! "  he  murmured  to  himself  as  he  cut  off  a 
large  piece  of  sausage  and  put  it  into  his  mouth.  ' '  That 's 
a  very  nice  name!"  He  munched  the  sausage.  "A  very 
nice  name,"  he  thought  again.  "Much  nicer  than  Maggie 
Carmichael." 

vi 

He  left  the  restaurant  and,  having  enquired  the  way,  pro- 
ceeded along  Cheapside  towards  Fleet  Street.  There  was 
nothing  of  interest  to  him  in  Cheapside,  and  so,  in  spite  of 
its  memories  of  Richard  Whittington  and  Robert  Herrick, 
he  hurried  out  of  it.  He  turned  into  St.  Paul's  Church- 
yard, eager  to  see  the  Cathedral,  but  as  he  did  so,  his  heart 
fell.  The  Eastern  end  of  the  Cathedral  does  not  impress 
the  beholder.  John  ought  to  have  seen  St.  Paul's  first  from 
Ludgate  Hill,  but,  coming  on  it  from  Cheapside,  he  could 
not  get  a  proper  view  of  it.  He  had  expected  to  turn  a  cor- 
ner and  see  before  him,  immense  and  wonderful,  the  great 
church,  rich  in  tradition  and  dignity,  rearing  itself  high 
above  the  houses  like  a  strong  man  rising  up  from  the  midst 
of  pigmies  .  .  .  and  he  had  turned  a  corner  and  seen  only  a 
grimy,  blackened  thing,  huddled  into  a  corner  .  .  .  jostled 
almost  ...  by  greedy  shopkeepers  and  warehousemen.  A 
narrow  passage,  congested  by  carts,  separated  the  eastern 
end  of  the  cathedral  from  ugly  buildings ;  a  narrower  pas- 
sage separated  the  railings  of  the  churchyard  from  shops 
where  men  sold  baby  linen  and  women 's  blouses  and  kitchen 
ranges  and  buns  and  milk.  .  .  . 

His  Uncle  Matthew  had  told  him  that  the  dome  of  St. 
Paul 's  could  be  seen  from  every  part  of  London.  ' '  If  ever 
you  lose  yourself  in  London,"  he  had  said,  "search  the  sky 
'til  you  see  the  dome  of  St.  Paul 's  and  then  work  your  way 
towards  it!"  And  here,  in  the  very  churchyard  of  the 
Cathedral,  the  dome  was  not  visible  because  the  shop-keep- 


174  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

ers  had  not  left  enough  of  room  for  a  man  to  stand  back  and 
view  it  properly.  John  wondered  whether  the  whole  of 
London  would  disappoint  him  so  much  as  St.  Paul's  had 
done.  The  English  seemed  to  have  very  little  regard  for 
their  cathedrals,  for  they  put  them  into  cramped  areas  and 
allowed  merchants  to  encircle  them  with  ugly  shops  and 
offices.  In  Southwark,  he  had  seen  the  church  where 
Shakespeare  prayed,  hidden  behind  a  hideous  railway 
bridge,  with  its  pavement  fouled  by  rotting  cabbage  leaves 
and  the  stinking  debris  of  a  vegetable  market.  And  here, 
now,  was  St.  Paul 's  surrounded  by  dingy,  desolating  houses, 
as  if  an  effort  were  being  made  to  conceal  the  church  from 
view. 

He  hurried  through  the  churchyard  until  he  reached  the 
western  end  of  the  Cathedral,  where  some  of  his  disappoint- 
ment dropped  out  of  his  mind.  The  great  front  of  the 
church,  with  its  wide,  deep  steps  and  its  great,  strong  pil- 
lars, black  and  grey  from  the  smoke  and  fog  of  London, 
filled  him  with  a  sense  of  imperturbable  dignity.  Men 
might  build  their  dingy,  little  shops  and  their  graceless, 
scrambling  warehouses,  and  try  to  crowd  the  Cathedral  into 
a  corner,  but  the  great  church  would  still  retain  its  dignity 
and  strength  however  much  they  might  succeed  in  obscuring 
it.  He  walked  across  the  pavement,  scattering  the  pigeons 
as  he  did  so,  undecided  whether  to  enter  the  Cathedral  or 
not,  until  he  reached  the  flagstone  on  which  is  chiselled  the 
statement  that  "Here  Queen  Victoria  Returned  Thanks  to 
Almighty  God  for  the  Sixtieth  Anniversary  of  Her  Acces- 
sion. June  22,  1897."  As  he  contemplated  the  flagstone, 
he  forgot  about  the  Cathedral,  and  remembered  only  his 
Uncle  Matthew.  On  this  spot,  a  little,  old  woman  had  said 
her  thankful  prayers,  the  little,  old  woman  for  whom  his 
Uncle,  who  had  never  seen  her,  had  cracked  a  haberdash- 
er's window  and  suffered  disgrace;  and  she  and  he  were 
dead,  and  the  little,  old  lady  was  of  no  more  account  than 
the  simple-minded  man  who  had  nearly  been  sent  to  gaol 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  175 

because  of  his  devotion  to  her  memory.  Many  times  in  his 
life,  had  John  heard  people  speak  of  "the  Queen"  almost 
in  an  awe-stricken  fashion,  until,  now  and  then,  she  seemed 
to  him  to  be  a  legendary  woman,  a  great  creature  in  a  he- 
roic story,  someone  of  whom  he  might  dream,  but  of  whom 
he  might  never  hope  to  catch  a  glimpse.  It  startled  him 
to  think  that  she  had  human  qualities,  that  she  ate  and 
drank  and  slept  and  suffered  pain  and  laughed  and  cried 
like  other  people.  She  was  "the  Queen":  she  owned  the 
British  Empire  and  all  that  it  contained.  She  owned  white 
men  and  black  men  and  yellow  men  and  red  men ;  she  owned 
islands  and  continents  and  deserts  and  seas;  a  great  tract 
of  the  world  belonged  to  her  .  .  .  and  here  he  was  standing 
on  the  very  spot  where  she  had  sat  in  her  carriage,  offering 
thanks  in  old  quavering  accents  to  the  Almighty  God  for 
allowing  her  to  reign  for  sixty  years.  The  fact  that  he  was 
able  to  stand  on  that  very  spot  seemed  comical  to  him. 
There  ought  to  have  been  a  burning  bush  on  the  place  where 
"the  Queen"  had  said  her  prayers.  Uncle  Matthew  would 
have  expected  something  of  that  sort  .  .  .  but  there  was 
nothing  more  dramatic  than  this  plainly-chiselled  inscrip- 
tion. And  the  little,  old  woman  was  as  dusty  in  her  grave 
as  Uncle  Matthew  was  in  his.  . 


Vll 

He  passed  down  Ludgate  Hill,  across  Ludgate  Circus, 
into  Fleet  Street,  turning  for  a  few  moments  to  look  back  at 
the  Cathedral.  Again,  he  had  a  sense  of  anger  against  the 
English  people  who  could  allow  a  railway  company  to  fling 
an  ugly  bridge  across  the  foot  of  Ludgate  Hill  and  destroy 
the  view  of  St.  Paul 's  from  the  Circus ;  but  he  had  had  too 
many  shocks  that  morning  to  feel  a  deep  anger  then,  and  so, 
turning  his  back  on  the  Cathedral,  he  walked  up  Fleet 
Street.  He  stared  about  him  with  interest,  gazing  up  at 
the  names  of  the  newspapers  that  were  exhibited  in  large 


176  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

letters  on  the  fronts  of  the  houses.  The  street  seemed  to  be 
shouting  at  him,  yelling  out  names  as  if  it  were  afraid  to 
be  silent.  It  was  a  disorderly  street.  It  seemed  to  straggle 
up  the  hill  to  the  Strand,  as  if  it  had  not  had  time  to  put 
its  clothes  on  properly.  All  along  its  length,  he  could  see, 
at  intervals,  scaffold-poles  and  builders'  hoardings.  Houses 
and  offices  were  being  altered  or  repaired  or  rebuilt.  He 
felt  that  the  street  had  been  constructed  for  a  great  game 
of  hide-and-seek,  for  the  flow  of  the  buildings  was  irregular : 
here,  a  house  stood  forward ;  there,  a  house  stood  back.  In 
one  of  these  bays,  a  player  might  hide  from  a  seeker !  .  .  . 
Somewhere  in  this  street,  John  remembered,  Dr.  Johnson 
had  lived,  and  he  tried  to  imagine  the  scene  that  took  place 
on  the  night  of  misery  when  Oliver  Goldsmith  went  to  the 
Doctor  and  wept  over  the  failure  of  The  Good  Natured  Man, 
and  was  called  a  ninny  for  his  pains.  But  he  could  not 
make  the  scene  come  alive  because  of  the  noise  and  confu- 
sion in  the  street.  The  air  of  immediacy  which  enveloped 
him  made  quiet  imagination  impossible.  His  head  began 
to  ache  with  the  sounds  that  filled  his  ears,  and  he  wished 
that  he  could  escape  from  the  shouting  herd  into  some  little 
soundless  place  where  his  mind  could  become  easy  again  and 
free  from  pain.  He  stared  around  him,  glancing  at  the 
big-lettered  signs  over  the  newspaper  offices,  at  the  omni- 
buses, at  the  crowds  of  men  and  women,  and  once  his  heart 
leaped  into  his  throat  as  he  saw  a  boy  on  a  bicycle,  carrying 
a  bag  stuffed  with  newspapers  on  his  back,  ride  rapidly  out 
of  a  side  street  into  the  middle  of  the  congested  traffic  as 
if  there  were  nothing  substantial  to  hinder  his  progress  .  .  . 
and  as  he  stared  about  him,  it  seemed  to  him  that  Fleet 
Street  was  on  the  verge  of  a  nervous  breakdown.  .  .  , 

' '  I  must  get  out  of  this, ' '  he  said  to  himself,  turning  aim- 
lessly out  of  the  street. 

He  found  himself  presently  in  a  narrow  lane,  and,  look- 
ing up  at  the  sign,  saw  that  it  was  called  "Hanging  Sword 
Alley."  He  looked  at  the  bye- way,  a  mere  gutter  of  a 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  177 

street,  and  wondered  what  sort  of  a  man  had  given  it  that 
romantic  name;  and  while  he  wondered,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  his  mind  had  suddenly  become  illuminated.  His  Uncle 
Matthew  had  had  romantic  imaginings  all  his  life  about 
everything  except  the  things  that  were  under  his  nose.  He 
had  never  seen  Queen  Victoria,  but  he  had  suffered  for  her 
sake.  He  had  never  seen  London,  but  he  had  declared  it  to 
be  a  city  of  romance  and  colour  and  vivid  happenings.  Per- 
haps Uncle  Matthew  was  like  the  man  who  had  named  this 
dull,  grimy,  narrow  passage,  "Hanging  Sword  Alley"! 
Perhaps  Queen  Victoria  was  not  quite  .  .  .  not  quite  all 
that  Uncle  Matthew  had  imagined  her  to  be.  The  thought 
staggered  him,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  had  filled  his  mind  with 
treason  and  sedition!  ...  He  could  not  say  what  Queen 
Victoria  was,  but  with  his  own  eyes  he  had  seen  London,  and 
London  had  as  little  of  romance  in  it  as  Hanging  Sword 
Alley  had.  There  were  noise  and  scuffle  and  dingy  distrac- 
tion and  mobs  of  little  white-faced,  nervous  men  and  women, 
and  a  drab  content  with  blotched  beauty  .  .  .  but  none  of 
these  things  had  romance  in  them.  He  had  been  told  that 
London  flower-girls  were  pretty  .  .  .  and  he  had  seen  only 
coarse  and  unclean  women,  with  towsled  hair.  He  had  been 
told  that  London  'busdrivers  were  cheerful,  witty  men 
.  .  .  but  the  driver  to  whom  he  had  spoken  had  been  surly 
at  the  beginning  and  witless  to  the  end.  If  Uncle  Matthew 
had  come  into  this  dirty  bye-way,  he  would  have  seen  only 
the  name  of  Hanging  Sword  Alley,  but  John  had  seen 
more  than  the  name :  he  had  seen  the  inadequacy  of  the  bye- 
way  to  the  name  it  bore. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  can't  see  the  romance 
in  things.  Mebbe,  Uncle  Matthew  could  see  more  than  I 
can!  .  .  ." 

His  head  ached  more  severely  now,  and  he  wandered  into 
Tudor  Street.  A  great  rurr-rurr  came  from  the  cellars  of 
the  houses,  and  glancing  into  them,  he  could  see  big  ma- 
chines working,  and  he  guessed  that  these  were  the  engines 


178  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

that  printed  the  newspapers.  The  thump  of  the  presses, 
as  they  turned  great  rolls  of  white  paper  into  printed  sheets, 
seemed  to  beat  inside  his  head,  causing  him  pain  with  every 
stroke.  He  pressed  his  fingers  against  his  temples  in  an 
effort  to  relieve  the  ache,  but  it  would  not  be  relieved. 
' '  Oh ! "  he  exclaimed  aloud  after  one  very  sharp  twinge,  and 
then,  as  he  spoke,  he  found  himself  before  a  gate  and,  heed- 
less of  what  he  was  doing,  he  passed  through  it  ...  and 
found  himself  in  an  oasis  in  a  desert  of  noise.  The  harsh 
sounds  died  down,  the  rurr-rurr-rurr  of  the  machines  ceased 
to  trouble  him,  the  scuffle  and  haste  no  longer  offended  his 
sense  of  decency.  He  was  in  a  place  of  cool  cloisters  and 
wide  green  lawns.  He  could  see  young  men  in  white  flan- 
nels playing  tennis  ...  in  Ballyards  it  was  called  "bat 
and  ball"  .  .  .  and  beyond  the  tennis-courts,  he  saw  the 
shining  river. 

' '  What  place  is  this  ?"  he  said  to  a  man  who  went  by. 

"Temple  Gardens!"  the  man  replied. 

He  walked  about  the  Gardens,  delighting  in  the  quiet  and 
the  coolness.  Pigeons  flew  down  from  the  roof  of  a  house 
and  began  to  pick  bread-crumbs  almost  at  his  feet.  There 
was  a  sweet  noise  of  birds.  .  .  . 

He  looked  at  the  names  of  the  barristers  painted  on  the 
doorways  of  the  houses,  and  wondered  which  of  them  were 
judges.  He  wished  he  could  see  a  judge  in  his  crimson 
robes  and  his  long,  curly  wig,  coming  out  of  the  chambers, 
and  while  he  wished  for  this  splendid  spectacle,  he  saw  a 
barrister  in  his  black  gown  and  horse-hair  wig,  come  down 
a  narrow  passage  from  the  Strand  and  enter  the  doorway 
of  one  of  the  houses.  He  walked  on  into  Pump  Court  and 
watched  the  sparrows  washing  themselves  in  the  fountain 
where  Tom  Pinch  met  Ruth  .  .  .  and  while  he  watched 
them,  his  sense  of  loneliness  returned  to  him.  His  head  still 
ached  and  now  his  heart  ached,  too.  Disappointment  had 
come  to  him  all  day.  He  was  alone  in  a  city  full  of  people 
who  knew  nothing  of  him  and  cared  nothing  for  him.  And 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  179 

his  heart  was  aching.  The  peace  of  Pump  Court  only 
served  to  make  him  more  aware  of  the  ache  in  his  head.  As 
he  dipped  his  hand  in  the  water  of  the  fountain,  he  wished 
that  he  could  go  round  a  corner  and  meet  Uncle  William 
or  Mr.  Cairnduff  or  the  minister  or  even  Aggie  Logan  .  .  . 
meet  someone  whom  he  knew !  .  .  . 

' '  I  'd  give  the  world  for  a  cup  of  tea, ' '  he  said  to  himself 
suddenly,  and  then,  "I  wonder  could  I  find  that  place  where 
I  saw  the  girl.  Mebbe  she  'd  be  there  again !  .  .  . " 

He  looked  about  him  in  an  indeterminate  way.  Then 
he  moved  from  the  fountain  in  the  direction  of  the  Strand. 
' '  I  can  try  anyway ! "  he  said. 


Vlll 

The  girl  was  sitting  at  a  large  table  in  a  corner  of  the 
restaurant,  and  he  saw  with  joy  that  there  was  a  vacant  seat 
immediately  opposite  to  her.  He  looked  at  her  as  he  sat 
down,  but  she  gave  no  sign  of  recognition.  He  had  hoped 
that  their  encounter  earlier  in  the  day  would  have  entitled 
him  to  a  smile  from  her,  but  her  features  remained  unre- 
laxed,  although  he  knew  that  she  was  aware  of  him  and  re- 
membered him.  Her  eyes  and  his  had  met,  and  he  had  been 
ready  to  answer  her  smile  with  another  smile,  but  she 
averted  her  eyes  from  his  stare  and  looked  down  at  her 
plate.  What  eyes  she  had  .  .  .  grey  at  one  moment  and 
blue  at  another  as  her  face  turned  in  the  light !  When  she 
looked  downwards,  he  could  see  long  lashes  fringing  her 
eyelids,  and  when  she  looked  up,  the  changing  colour  of  her 
irises  and  the  blue  tinge  that  suffused  the  cornea,  caused 
him  to  think  of  her  eyes  as  pools  of  light.  Her  face  was 
pale,  and  in  repose  it  had  an  appearance  of  puzzled  pathos 
that  made  him  feel  that  he  must  instantly  offer  comfort  to 
her,  and  he  would  have  done  so  had  not  her  nervous  reti- 
cence prevented  him.  What  would  she  do  if  he  were  to 
speak  to  her?  There  was  an  illustrated  paper  lying  close 


180  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

to  her  plate.  He  leant  across  the  table  and,  pointing  to 
the  paper,  said,  "Are  you  using  that?" 

She  started,  and  then,  without  a  smile,  said,  "No,"  and 
passed  the  paper  to  him. 

' '  Thank  you ! "  he  murmured,  taking  it  from  her. 

It  was  an  old  paper,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  read  it,  but  he 
had  to  pretend  to  be  interested  in  it,  for  the  girl  showed  no 
desire  to  offer  any  more  than  the  casual  civilities  of  one 
stranger  to  another.  He  hoped  that  he  might  suddenly  look 
up  and  find  that  she  was  regarding  him  intently  .  .  .  she 
would  hurriedly  glance  away  from  him  with  an  air  of  pretty 
confusion  .  .  .  but  although  he  looked  up  at  her  many 
times,  he  never  caught  her  gazing  at  him.  He  wished  that 
she  would  take  her  hat,  a  wide-brimmed  one,  off  so  that  he 
might  see  her  hair.  How  ridiculous  it  was  of  women  to 
sit  at  meals  with  hats  on !  ...  He  could  just  see  a  wave  of 
dark  brown  hair  under  the  brim  of  her  hat,  flowing  across 
her  broad  brow.  Her  eyebrows  were  dark  and  level  and 
very  firm,  and  he  thought  how  wonderfully  the  darkness 
of  her  eyebrows  and  her  eyelids  and  the  pallor  of  her  skin 
served  to  enrich  the  beauty  of  her  eyes.  Maggie  Car- 
michael's  eyes  had  had  laughter  in  them  .  .  .  they  seemed 
always  to  be  sparkling  with  merriment  .  .  .  but  this  girl 's 
eyes  had  tears  in  them.  She  might  often  smile,  John  told 
himself,  but  she  would  seldom  laugh.  Her  air  of  listening 
for  an  alarm  and  the  nervous  movement  of  her  fingers  made 
him  imagine  that  a  magician  had  changed  some  swift  and 
beautiful  and  timid  animal  into  a  woman.  The  magicians 
in  the  Arabian  Nights  frequently  turned  men  and  women 
into  hounds  and  antelopes,  but  the  process  had  been  re- 
versed with  this  girl:  an  antelope  had  been  turned  into  a 
woman.  ...  If  only  she  would  give  him  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  her,  of  making  friends  with  her !  He  suddenly 
held  out  the  paper  to  her.  "Thank  you!"  he  said. 

"It  isn't  mine,"  she  answered  indifferently. 

He  became  confused  and  clumsy,  and  he  put  the  paper 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  181 

down  on  the  table  so  that  it  upset  a  spoon  on  to  the  floor 
with  a  noise  that  seemed  loud  enough  to  wake  the  dead ;  and 
as  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  he  pushed  the  paper  against  her 
plate,  causing  it  almost  to  fall  into  her  lap. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  exclaimed. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  replied  coldly. 

He  could  feel  the  blood  running  hotly  through  his  body, 
and  the  warm  flush  of  it  spreading  over  his  cheeks.  ' '  That 
was  a  cut,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  wondered  what  he 
should  do  or  say  next.  What  a  fool  he  must  appear  to  her ! 
...  It  would  be  ridiculous  to  ask  her  to  tell  him  the  time, 
for  there  was  a  large  and  palpable  clock  over  her  head  so 
fixed  that  he  could  not  fail  to  see  it.  It  was  very  odd,  he 
thought,  that  she  should  not  wish  to  speak  to  him  when 
he  so  ardently  wished  to  speak  to  her.  She  had  finished 
her  meal  and  he  knew  that  in  a  moment  or  two  she  would 
rise  and  go  out  of  the  restaurant.  He  leant  across  the 
table. 

"Miss  Moore,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you  would  be  friends 
with  me!" 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  were  not  certain  that  he  had 
spoken  to  her,  and  as  she  saw  how  earnestly  he  gazed  at  her, 
the  expression  of  her  face  changed  from  one  of  astonish- 
ment to  one  of  alarm. 

"Won't  you?  "he  said. 

She  gave  a  little  gasp  and  rose  hurriedly  from  her.  seat. 

"Miss  Moore!"  he  said  appealingly. 

"I  don't  know  you,"  she  replied,  hurrying  away. 

He  sat  still.  It  seemed  to  him  that  every  person  in  the 
restaurant  must  be  looking  at  him  and  condemning  him  for 
his  behaviour.  He  had  spoken  to  a  girl  who  did  not  know 
him,  and  he  had  frightened  her.  The  look  of  alarm  in  her 
face  was  unmistakable.  What  must  she  think  of  him? 
Would  she  ever  believe  that  he  had  no  wish  to  frighten  her, 
that  he  wished  only  to  be  her  friend,  to  talk  to  her?  If  he 
had  told  her  that  he  did  not  know  anyone  in  London  and  was 


182  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

feeling  miserably  lonely,  perhaps  she  would  have  been  kind 
to  him  .  .  .  but  what  opportunity  had  he  had  to  tell  her 
anything.  Well,  that  was  the  end  of  that!  He  was  not 
likely  to  see  Eleanor  Moore  again,  and  even  if  he  were,  he 
could  hardly  hope,  after  such  a  rebuff,  to  win  her  friend- 
ship unless  a  miracle  were  to  happen  .  .  .  and  he  had 
begun  to  feel  dubious  about  miracles  since  he  had  arrived  in 
London.  Perhaps,  if  he  were  to  follow  her  and  explain 
matters  to  her!  .  .  . 

He  hurried  out  of  the  restaurant,  and  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two  on  the  pavement  glancing  up  and  down  the 
street.  She  was  turning  out  of  the  lane  into  Queen  Vic- 
toria Street,  and  as  he  stood  looking  at  her,  she  turned 
round  the  corner  and  he  lost  sight  of  her. 

"I'll  go  after  her,"  he  said. 

ix 

He  ran  into  Queen  Victoria  Street  and  glanced  eagerly 
about  him.  It  was  difficult  in  the  press  of  people  to  dis- 
tinguish a  single  person,  but  fortunately  the  street  was 
fairly  clear  of  traffic,  and  he  saw  her  crossing  the  road  near 
the  Mansion  House.  He  hastened  after  her  and  saw  her 
enter  a  block  of  offices  in  Cornhill.  He  reached  the  door 
of  this  building  in  time  to  see  her  being  carried  out  of  sight 
in  the  lift.  He  entered  the  hall  and  stood  by  the  gate  until 
the  lift  had  descended. 

"Can  you  tell  me  which  of  these  offices  that  lady  works 
in  ? "  he  said  to  the  liftman.  ' '  The  lady  you  've  just  taken 
up,  Miss  Moore  ? ' ' 

The  liftman  looked  at  him  suspiciously. 

"Wot  you  want  to  know  for?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  I  ...  I'm  a  friend  of  hers,"  John  answered 
lamely. 

"Well,  if  you're  a  friend  of  'ers,  I  daresay  she'll  tell  you 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  183 

'erself  next  time  she  sees  you,"  said  the  liftman.  "Any- 
'ow,  I  sha'n't.  See?" 

"But  I  particularly  want  to  know,"  John  persisted. 
"Look  here,  I'll  give  you  half-a-crown  if  you'll  tell 
me!  .  .  ." 

' '  An '  I  '11  give  you  a  thitek  ear  if  you  don 't  'op  it  out  of 
this  quick,"  the  liftman  retorted  angrily.  "I  know  you. 
Nosey  Parker,  that 's  wot  you  are !  Comin '  'round  'ere,  an- 
noyin '  girls !  I  know  you !  I  seen  fellers  like  you  before,  I 
'ave!  .  .  ." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  John. 

"Mean!  'Ere's  wot  I  mean.  You're  either  a  broker's 
man!  .  .  ." 

"No,  I'm  not,"  John  interrupted. 

"Or  you're  up  to  no  good,  see!  An'  wotever  you  are, 
you  can  just  'op  it,  see!  You'll  get  no  information  out  of 
me,  Mr.  Nosey  Parker,  see!  An'  if  I  ketch  you  'angin' 
about  'ere,  annoyin'  'er  or  anybody  else  I'll  'it  you  on  the 
jawr,  see,  an'  then  I'll  'and  you  over  to  the  police.  An' 
that  11  learn  you ! ' ' 

John  stared  at  the  man.     ' '  Do  you  mean  to  say  ?  .  .  . " 

' '  I  mean  to  say  wot  I  'ave  said, ' '  the  liftman  interjected. 
"An'  I  don't  mean  to  say  no  more.  'Op  it.  That's  all. 
Or  it  '11  be  the  worse  for  you ! ' ' 

The  lift  bell  rang,  and  the  man  entered  the  lift  and  closed 
the  gate.  Then  he  ascended  out  of  sight.  John  gaped 
through  the  gate  into  the  well  of  the  lift. 

"  I  've  a  good  mind  to  break  that  chap 's  skull, ' '  he  said  to 
himself  as  he  turned  away. 

He  left  the  block  of  offices  and  went  towards  Prince's 
Street. 

"It's  no  good  hanging  about  here  any  longer,"  he  said. 
"I '11  go  home!" 

A  'bus  drove  up  as  he  reached  the  corner,  and  he  climbed 
into  it.  "I'll  come  again  to-morrow,"  he  said,  "and  try 


184  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

and  find  her.  She'll  have  to  listen  to  me.  I'm  really  in 
love  this  time ! ' ' 

He  had  been  provided  with  a  latch-key  before  leaving 
Miss  Squibb 's  house  in  the  morning,  and,  with  an  air  of 
responsibility,  he  let  himself  in.  Lizzie,  carrying  a  tray  of 
dishes,  came  into  the  hall  as  he  opened  the  door. 

"Just  in  time,"  she  said  affably.  "If  you'd  'a'  been  a 
bit  sooner,  you'd  'a'  seen  the  Creams.  They  come  back 
just  after  you  went  out  'smornin'.  I  told  'em  all  about 
you  .  .  .  you  bein'  Irish  an'  littery  an'  never  'avin'  been 
to  the  Zoo  or  anythink.  They  was  interested ! ' ' 

"Oh!" 

"  'E's  such  a  nice  man,  Mr.  Cream  is.  She  ain't  bad, 
but  'e  's  nice.  They  gone  to  the  Oxford  now.  I  wish  you  'd 
seen  'em  start  off  in  their  broom ! ' ' 

"Broom?" 

"Yes,  their  carriage.  They  'ave  to  'ire  one  when  they're 
in  London  so 's  to  get  about  from  one  'all  to  another.  They 
act  in  two  or  three  'alls  a  night  in  London.  I  do  like  to 
see  'em  go  off  in  their  broom  of  a  evenin '.  Mykes  the  'ouse 
look  a  bit  classy,  I  think,  but  Aunt  says  they're  living  in  sin 
an'  she  down't  feel  'appy  about  it.  But  wot  I  sy  is,  wot's 
it  matter  so  long  as  they  pys  their  rent  reg'lar  an'  down't 
go  an' myke  no  fuss.  They  couldn't  be  less  trouble.  They 
keep  on  their  rooms  'ere,  just  the  same  whether  they  're  'ere 
or  not,  an '  sometimes  they  're  away  for  months  at  a  stretch. 
It  ain  't  every  dy  you  get  lodgers  like  them,  and  wot  I  sy  is, 
if  they  are  livin '  in  sin,  it 's  them  that  '11  ave  to  go  to  'ell  for 
it,  not  us.  Aunt's  very  religious,  but  she  can  see  sense 
syme's  anybody  else,  so  she  'olds  'er  tongue  about  it.  I 
down 't  'old  with  sin  myself,  mind  you,  but  I  down 't  believe 
in  cuttin'  off  your  nose  to  spite  someone  else's  fyce.  You 
go  an'  wash  your  'ands,  an'  I'll  'ave  your  dinner  up  in 
'alf  a  jiff!  .  .  ." 

John  stared  at  her.  "I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by 
living  in  sin,"  he  said. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  185 

"Well,  you  are  inner-cent,"  she  replied.  "  'Aven't  you 
never  'card  of  no  one  livin'  together  without  bein'  mar- 
ried?" 

"I've  read  about  it!  .  .  ." 

"Well,  that's  livin'  in  sin,  that  is.  Pers'nally.  I  down't 
see  wot  diff'rence  it  mykes.  They  be'ave  about  the  syme. 
married  or  not.  'E's  a  bit  more  lovin',  per'aps,  than  a 
'usband,  but  otherwise  it 's  about  the  syme ! ' ' 

The  bluntness  of  Lizzie's  speech  disconcerted  him,  and 
yet  the  simplicity  of  it  reassured  him.  He  did  not  now 
feel,  as  he  has  felt  in  the  morning,  that  she  was  a  Bad 
Woman;  but  he  could  not  completely  comprehend  her. 
Girls  in  Ballyard  did  not  speak  as  she  spoke.  One  knew 
that  there  were  Bad  Women  in  the  world  and  that  there  was 
much  sin  in  love-making,  but  one  did  not  speak  of  it,  except 
in  shuddering  whispers.  Lizzie,  however,  spoke  of  it  al- 
most as  if  she  were  talking  of  the  weather.  Evidently,  life 
and  habit  in  England  were  very  different  from  life  and 
habit  in  Ballyards.  .  .  .  He  went  up  the  stairs  to  his  room, 
in  a  mood  partly  of  horror  and  partly  of  curiosity.  He 
was  shocked  to  think  that  he  was  living  in  the  same  house 
with  guilty  sinners,  but  he  had  an  odd  desire  to  see 
them. 

When  he  had  reached  the  first  landing,  Lizzie  called  after 
him.  "There's  a  poce-card  for  you,"  she  said.  "From 
Mr.  'Inde.  'E  says  'e  '11  be  'ome  to-morrow,  an '  'e  asts  you 
to  give  me  'is  love.  Saucy  'ound !  'E 's  a  one,  'e  is ! " 

John  turned  towards  her.  "It  won't  be  necessary  for 
me  to  give  his  love  to  you,  will  it?"  he  said  sarcastically. 
' '  You  seem  to  have  taken  it  already ! ' ' 

She  was  unaware  of  his  sarcasm.  "So  I  'ave,"  she  said. 
"I'll  tell  'im  that  when  'e  comes  back!" 

"Do  you  always  read  post-cards,  Lizzie?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course  I  do,"  she  answered.  "So  does  everybody. 
You  'urry  on  now,  an'  I'll  'ave  your  dinner  up  before  you 
finish  dryin'  your  fyce!"  She  contemplated  him  for  a 


186  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

moment.  "You  got  nice  'air,"  she  said,  "only  it  wants 
brushin'.  An'  cuttin',  too!" 

Then  she  disappeared  down  the  stairs  leading  to  the  base- 
ment. 

"That's  a  very  rum  sort  of  a  woman,"  John  murmured 
to  himself  as  he  proceeded  to  his  room. 


THE  SECOND  CHAPTER 


HE  had  gone  to  bed  before  the  Creams  returned  from  their 
round  of  the  music-halls,  but  in  the  morning,  when  Lizzie 
had  removed  the  remnants  of  his  breakfast,  John  heard  a 
tap  on  the  door  of  the  sitting-room,  and  on  opening  it,  found 
a  small,  wistful-looking  man,  with  a  smiling  face,  standing 
outside. 

"Good-morning,"  said  the  stranger,  holding  his  hand 
out.  "  I  'm  Cream  from  the  ground-floor ! ' ' 

"Oh,  yes,"  John  answered,  shaking  hands  with  him. 
' '  Come  in,  won 't  you ! ' ' 

' '  Well,  I  was  going  to  suggest  you  should  come  down  and 
be  introduced  to  the  wife.  She'd  like  to  meet  you!"  Mr. 
Cream  said,  entering  the  sitting-room  as  he  spoke. 

John  had  a  sensation  of  self -consciousness  when  he  heard 
the  word  ' '  wife. ' ' 

"Settling  down  comfortably?"  Mr.  Cream  continued. 

"Oh,  yes,  thank  you,"  said  John.  "I  went  out  all  day 
yesterday  and  had  my  first  look  at  London ! ' ' 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  it?     Great  place,  eh?" 

John  confessed  that  he  had  been  disappointed  in  London, 
and  in  a  few  moments  he  began  to  recite  a  list  of  the  things 
that  had  disappointed  him. 

"Wait  'til  you've  been  here  a  few  months,"  Mr.  Cream 
interrupted.  "You'll  love  this  town.  You'll  hate  loving 
it,  but  you  won't  be  able  to  help  yourself.  I've  been  all 
over  the  world,  the  wife  and  me,  and  I  've  seen  some  of  the 
loveliest  places  on  earth,  but  London's  got  me.  You'll  be 
the  same.  You  see ! "  He  glanced  about  the  room,  casting 

187 


188  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

his  eyes  critically  at  the  books.  "I  hear  you're  a  writer, 
too  ? "  he  said,  less  as  an  assertion  than  as  a  question. 

"I've  written  one  book,"  John  replied,  "but  it  hasn't 
been  printed.  I  want  to  discuss  it  with  Mr.  Hinde,  but 
I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  do  that  yet.  He's  been  away 
ever  since  I  arrived.  He  '11  be  home  the  day  though ! ' ' 

' '  So  Lizzie  told  me.     Queer  bird,  Lizzie,  isn  't  she  ? ' ' 

"Very,"  said  John. 

"But  she's  a  good  soul.  I'd  trust  Lizzie  with  every  ha'- 
penny I  have,  but  I  wouldn't  trust  that  old  cat  of  an  aunt 
of  hers  with  a  brass  farthing.  She's  too  religious  to  be 
honest.  That's  my  opinion  of  her.  Come  on  down  and  see 
the  wife ! ' '  He  rose  from  his  seat  as  he  spoke.  ' '  I  suppose 
you've  never  tried  your  hand  at  a  play,  have  you?"  he 
asked,  leading  the  way  to  the  door. 

"No,  not  yet,  but  I  had  a  notion  of  trying,"  John  said, 
following  him. 

"I  could  give  you  a  few  tips  if  you  needed  advice,"  Mr. 
Cream  continued,  as  they  descended  the  stairs.  "As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  the  wife  and  me  are  in  need  of  a  new  piece  for 
the  halls,  and  it  struck  me  this  morning  when  I  heard  you 
were  a  writer,  that  mebbe  you  could  do  a  piece  for  us.  It 
would  be  practice  for  you ! ' ' 

"What  about  Mr.  Hinde?"  John  asked. 

"  I  've  tried  him  time  after  time,  but  it 's  no  good  asking. 
He's  a  journalist,  and  a  journalist  can  only  work  when  he's 
excited.  Put  him  down  to  something  that  needs  thought 
and  care,  and  he 's  lost.  And  he  always  says  he 's  writing  a 
tragedy  about  St.  Patrick  and  can't  think  of  anything 
else!" 

John  smiled,  without  quite  understanding  why  he  was 
smiling,  and  followed  Mr.  Cream  into  the  ground-floor  sit- 
ting-room where  Mrs.  Cream  was  lying  on  a  sofa. 

"This  is  the  wife,"  Mr.  Cream  said.  "Dolly,  this  is 
Mr.  .  .  .  Mr!  .  .  ." 

"  MacDermott, "  John  prompted. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  189 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course.  Mr.  MacDermott.  Lizzie  did  tell 
me,  but  I  can  never  remember  Irish  names  somehow ! ' ' 

Mrs.  Cream  extended  a  limp  hand  to  John.  "You  must 
excuse  me  for  not  getting  up,"  she  said,  "but  I'm  always 
very  tired  in  the  morning!" 

"You  see,  Mac,"  Mr.  Cream  explained,  "Dolly  is  a  very 
intense  actress  ...  I  think  she's  the  most  intense  actress 
on  the  stage  .  .  .  and  she  gets  very  worked  up  in  emotional 
pieces.  Don't  you,  Dolly?" 

Dolly  nodded  her  head,  and  then,  as  if  the  effort  of  doing 
so  had  been  too  great  an  exertion  for  her,  she  lay  back  on 
the  sofa  and  closed  her  eyes. 

' '  Perhaps  I  'd  better  go !  .  .  . "  John  suggested. 

"Oh,  no,  no!  She's  always  like  that.  All  right  in  the 
afternoon.  Won't  you,  Dolly?" 

Dolly  waved  her  hand  feebly. 

"Her  acting  takes  a  lot  out  of  her,"  Mr.  Cream  said. 
"Very  exhausting  all  that  emotional  work.  Bound  to  be 
.  .  .  bound  to  be!  Now,  comic  work's  different.  I  can  be 
as  comic  as  you  like,  and  all  that  happens  is  I  'in  nicely  tired 
aboat  bedtime,  and  I  sleep  like  a  top.  In  fact,  I  might 
say  1  sleep  like  two  tops,  for  the  wife's  so  unnerved,  as 
you  might  say,  by  her  own  acting  that  it  takes  her  half  the 
night  to  settle  down.  Nerves,  my  boy.  That 's  what  it  is ! 
Nerves!  I  tell  you,  Mac,  old  chap,  if  you  want  to  have  a 
good  night's  rest,  go  in  for  comic  work,  but  if  you  want 
to  lie  awake  and  think,  tragedy 's  your  trade.  Nerves  all  on 
edge.  Overwrought.  Terrible  thing,  tragedy!  Isn't  it, 
Dolly?" 

Mrs.  Cream  moaned  slightly  and  twisted  about  on  the 
sofa.  ' '  Too  much  talk ! ' '  she  murmured. 

"All  right,  my  dear,  all  right.  Suppose  we  just  go  up  to 
your  room  again,  Mac,  and  talk  until  she's  quieted  down? 
Eh?" 

' '  Very  well, ' '  said  John  who  was  feeling  exceedingly  un- 
comfortable. 


190  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

They  left  the  room  together.  John  walking  on  tiptoe,  for 
he  felt  that  the  situation  made  such  a  solemnity  necessary. 

"Temperament  is  a  peculiar  thing,"  Mr.  Cream  said  as 
they  ascended  the  stairs. 

"Evidently,"  John  answered. 

"I  may  as  well  warn  you  that  Dolly '11  make  love  to  you 
when  she's  recovered  herself,  but  you  needn't  let  it  worry 
you.  She  can't  help  it,  poor  dear,  and  I  often  think  it's 
the  only  real  relaxation  she  has  .  .  .  with  her  tempera- 
ment. Just  humour  her,  old  chap,  if  she  does.  I'll  know 
you  don't  mean  anything  by  it.  It's  temperament,  that's 
all  it  is.  Dolly  wouldn't  do  anything  .  .  .  not  for  the 
world  .  .  .  but  it  gives  her  a  lot  of  satisfaction  to  pretend 
she 's  doing  something.  Lot  of  women  like  that,  Mac.  Not 
nice  women,  really  .  .  .  except  Dolly,  of  course  .  .  .  and 
you  can  excuse  her  because  of  her  temperament ! ' ' 

They  entered  the  sitting-room  and  sat  down  at  the  table. 

"And  I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  Cream  continued,  "that 
Dolly  and  me  aren't  married.  I'd  like  to  be  regular  my- 
self, but  Dolly  says  she'd  feel  respectable  if  she  was  mar- 
ried .  .  .  and  she  thinks  you  can't  be  tragic  if  you're  re- 
spectable. She  always  says  that  she 's  at  her  best  when  she 
feels  that  I've  ruined  her  life.  I  daresay  she's  right,  old 
chap,  only  I'd  like  to  be  regular  myself.  As  I  tell  her, 
if  it 's  hard  to  be  tragic  when  you  're  respectable,  it 's  damn 
hard  to  be  comic  when  you're  not.  I  expect  Lizzie  told  you 
about  me  and  Dolly ! ' ' 

John  nodded  his  head. 

"I  thought  as  much.  Lizzie  always  tells  people.  I  don't 
know  what  the  hell  she'd  do  for  gossip  if  we  were  to  get 
married.  I  can't  think  how  she  found  out  .  .  .  unless 
Dolly  told  her  .  .  .  but  you  can  be  certain  of  this,  Mac,  if 
there's  a  skeleton  in  your  cupboard,  Lizzie '11  discover  it. 
Dolly's  the  skeleton  in  my  cupboard.  Of  course,  old  chap, 
I  don't  want  it  talked  about.  I  wouldn't  have  told  you 
anything  about  it,  only  I  guessed  that  Lizzie 'd  told  you. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  191 

Not  that  I  mind  you  or  Hinde  knowing  .  .  .  you  're  writers 
.  .  .  but  music-hall  people  are  so  particular  about  things 
of  that  sort.  You  wouldn  't  believe  how  narrow-minded  and 
old-fashioned  they  are  about  marriage  .  .  .  not  like  actors. 
That's  really  why  I  mentioned  the  matter.  I  don't  want 
you  to  think  I'm  bragging  about  it  or  anything!" 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  said  John.  "No,  of  course  not.  I 
wouldn 't  dream  of  saying  a  word  to  anybody ! ' ' 

"Thanks,  Mac,  old  chap!"  Cream  extended  his  hand 
to  John,  and  John,  wondering  why  it  was  offered  to  him, 
shook  it.  "Now  about  this  idea  of  mine  for  a  play!" 

"Play?" 

' '  Yes,  for  me  and  Dolly.  Why  shouldn  't  you  do  one  for 
us?  The  minute  I  heard  you  were  a  writer,  I  turned  to 
Dolly  and  I  said,  'Dolly,  darling,  let's  get  him  to  do  a  play 
for  us!'  And  she  agreed  at  once.  She  said,  'Do  what  you 
like,  darling,  but  don 't  worry  me  about  it ! '  You  see,  Mac, 
we're  getting  a  bit  tired  of  this  piece  we're  doing  now  .  .  . 
we've  been  doing  it  twice-nightly  for  four  years  .  .  .  The 
Girl  Gets  Left,  we  call  it  ...  and  we  want  new  stuff. 
See?  We'd  like  a  good  dramatic  piece  ...  a  little  bit  of 
high-class  in  it  ...  for  Dolly  ...  if  you  like,  only  not 
too  much.  Classy  stuff  wants  living  up  to  it,  and  I  haven 't 
got  it  in  me,  and  people  aren't  always  in  the  mood  for  it 
either.  In  the  music-halls,  anyway.  See?" 

"But!  .  .  ." 

"Dramatic  stuff  .  .  .  that 's  what  we  want.  Go!  Snap! 
Plenty  of  ginger !  Raise  hell 's  delight  and  then  haul  down 
the  curtain  quick  before  the  audience  has  had  time  to  pull 
itself  together.  See?  We'd  treat  the  author  very  hand- 
some if  we  could  get  hold  of  a  good  piece  with  a  big  emo- 
tional part  for  the  wife  .  .  .  and  although  I'm  her  hus- 
band ...  in  the  sight  of  God,  anyway  ...  I  will  say  this 
for  her,  Mac,  there's  not  another  woman  on  the  stage  .  .  . 
Ellen  Terry,  Mrs.  Pat  or  Sarah  Bernhardt  herself  .  .  .  can 
hold  a  candle  to  Dolly  for  emotional  parts.  Of  course, 


192  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

there 'd  have  to  be  a  comic  part  for  me,  too,  but  you  needn't 
worry  much  about  that.  I  always  make  up  my  own  part 
to  a  certain  extent.  Just  give  me  the  bare  outline :  I  '11  do 
the  rest.  You  see,  I  understand  the  public  ...  it's  a 
knack,  of  course  .  .  .  and  I  can  always  improve  the  au- 
thor's stuff  easy.  What  do  you  say?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  John. 

"You  needn't  put  your  name  to  it,  if  you  don't  want 
to.  Use  a  nom  de  plume  or  leave  the  name  out  altogether. 
Our  audience  doesn't  pay  any  attention  to  authors,  so  that 
won 't  matter.  And  it  '11  be  a  start  for  you,  Mac ! ' ' 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"Any  little  bit  of  success,  even  if  you're  half  ashamed 
of  it,  bucks  you  wonderful,  'Mac  ...  I  say,  you  don 't  mind 
me  calling  you  Mac,  do  you  ?  .  .  . " 

"No,"  John  replied. 

"Somehow  it's  homely  when  you  can  call  a  chap  Mac, 
somehow!  Now,  if  you  was  to  do  a  play  for  us,  and  it 
went  well,  it  'd  put  heart  into  you  for  something  better. 
If  you  can  find  your  way  to  the  heart  of  a  music-hall  au- 
dience, Mac,  my  boy,  you  can  find  your  way  anywhere. 
Now,  what  about  it,  eh?  Will  you  try  to  do  a  piece  for 
us?" 

"I'll  try,  but!  .  .  ." 

' '  That 's  all  right, ' '  said  Cream,  again  extending  his  hand 
to  John.  "Dolly '11  be  very  pleased  to  hear  we've  set- 
tled it!" 

"But  I  Ve  never  seen  a  music-hall  play ! ' '  John  exclaimed, 
' '  and  you  haven 't  said  how  much  you  '11  pay  me  for  it ! " 

"Never  been  in  a  music-hall!  .  .  .  Where  was  you 
brought  up,  Mac?" 

"In  Ballyards,"  John  replied  seriously. 

"Where's  that?" 

"Have  you  never  heard  of  Ballyards,  Mr.  Cream?" 

"No,"  the  comedian  replied. 

"Well,  where  were  you  brought  up  then?" 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  193 

Cream  regarded  him  closely  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
he  burst  into  laughter  and  again  shook  John  fervently  by 
the  hand. 

' '  That 's  one  up  for  you,  Mac ! "  he  said  genially.  ' '  Quite 
a  repartee.  Well,  come  with  us  to-night  and  see  The  Girl 
Gets  Left.  That'll  give  you  a  notion  of  the  sort  of  stuff 
we  want.  See?" 

"How  much  will  you  pay  me  for  it?" 

"Well,  we  gave  the  chap  that  wrote  The  Girl  Gets  Left 
,  .  .  poor  chap,  he  died  of  drink  about  six  weeks  ago  .  .  . 
couldn't  keep  away  from  it  ...  signed  the  pledge  .  .  . 
ate  sweets  .  .  .  did  everything  ...  no  good  .  .  .  always 
thought  out  his  best  jokes  when  he  was  drunk  .  .  .  well,  we 
gave  him  thirty  bob  a  week  for  The  Girl  Gets  Left  .  .  .  and 
mind  you  he  was  an  experienced  chap,  too  .  .  .  but  Dolly 
and  me,  we  've  decided  you  have  to  pay  a  bit  extra  for  classy 
stuff,  and  we  '11  give  you  two  quid  a  week  for  the  piece  if  it 
suits  us.  Two  quid  a  week  as  long  as  the  play  runs,  Mac. 
The  Girl  Gets  Left  has  been  played  for  four  years  .  .  .  four 
years,  Mac  ...  all  over  the  civilised  globe.  If  your  piece 
was  to  run  that  long,  you  'd  get  Four  Hundred  and  Sixteen 
Quid.  Four  Hundred  and  Sixteen  shiny  Jimmy  o'  Gob- 
lins, Mac!  Think  of  it!  And  all  for  a  couple  of  after- 
noons '  work !  .  .  . " 

"And  how  much  will  you  get  out  of  it?"  John  asked. 

"Oh,  I  dunno.  Enough  to  pay  the  rent  anyhow.  You 
know,  Mac,  these  high-class  chaps  like  Barrie  and  Bernard 
Shaw,  they've  never  had  a  play  run  for  four  years  any- 
where, and  yet  old  Hookings,  that  nobody  never  knew  noth- 
ing about  and  died  of  drink,  his  play  was  performed  all 
over  the  civilised  world  for  four  years.  That 's  something 
to  be  proud  of,  that  is.  Four  solid  years !  But  there  was 
nothing  in  the  papers  about  him,  when  he  died  .  .  .  noth- 
ing .  .  .  not  a  word.  And  if  Barrie  was  to  die,  or  Bernard 
Shaw  .  .  .  columns,  pages!  Barrie  .  .  .  well,  he's  all 
right,  of  course  .  .  .  not  bad  .  .  .  but  compare  him  with 


194  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

Bookings.  Why,  he  doesn  't  know  the  outside  of  the  human 
heart,  not  the  outside  of  it  he  doesn't,  and  Hookings  knew 
what  the  inside  of  it's  like.  You  take  that  play  of  Barrie's, 
The  Twelve  Pound  Look.  Not  bad  .  .  .  not  a  bad  play, 
at  all  ...  but  where's  the  feeling  heart  in  it?  Play  that 
piece  in  front  of  an  audience  of  coalminers  and  what  'ud 
you  get  ?  The  bird,  my  boy !  That  sort  of  stuff  is  all  right 
for  the  West  End  .  .  .  but  the  people,  Mac,  want  some- 
thing that  hits  'em  straight  between  the  eyes  and  gives  'em 
a  kick  in  the  stomach  as  well.  The  best  way  to  make  a 
man  sit  up  and  take  a  bit  of  notice  is  to  hit  him  a  punch 
on  the  jaw',  and  the  best  way  to  make  the  public  feel  sym- 
pathetic is  to  hit  it  a  punch  in  the  heart !  .  .  . " 

The  little  man  broke  off  suddenly  and  glanced  towards 
the  door.  "I  must  toddle  down  to  Dolly  now.  She  gets 
fretful  if  I  'm  out  of  her  sight  for  long.  1 11  see  you  later 
on  ...  seven  o  'clock,  old  chap  ! ' ' 

"Very  good,"  John  answered. 

"Aw  reservoir,  then!"  said  Cream,  as  he  left  the  room 
and  hurried  downstairs. 


11 

He  told  himself  that  he  ought  to  do  some  work,  but  the 
desire  to  see  more  of  London  overcame  his  good  resolution, 
and  so  he  left  the  house  and  set  out  again  for  the  town.  He 
hoped  that  he  might  see  Eleanor  Moore.  If  he  were  to  go 
to  the  tea-shop  at  the  same  hour  as  she  had  entered  it  yes- 
terday, he  might  contrive  to  seat  himself  at  her  table  again, 
and  this  time  perhaps  she  would  listen  to  him.  When  he 
reached  the  City,  he  found  that  he  was  too  early  for  the 
mid-day  meal,  and  so  he  resolved  to  go  and  stand  about  the 
entrance  to  the  office  where  Eleanor  Moore  was  employed. 
He  would  see  her  coming  out  of  it  and  could  follow  dis- 
creetly after  her.  .  .  .  But  although  he  waited  for  an  hour, 
she  did  not  appear,  nor  was  she  to  be  seen  in  the  tea-shop, 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  195 

when,  tired  and  disappointed,  he  took  his  place  in  it.  He 
dallied  over  his  meal,  hoping  every  moment  that  she  would 
turn  up,  but  at  length  he  had  to  go  away  without  seeing  her. 
At  teatime,  he  told  himself,  he  would  come  again  and  wait 
for  her.  He  climbed  on  to  a  'bus  and  let  himself  be  taken 
to  Charing  Cross,  where  he  enquired  the  way  to  the  Na- 
tional Gallery.  He  wandered  through  the  rooms  until  his 
eyes  ached  with  looking  at  the  pictures  and  his  feet  were 
sore  with  walking  on  the  polished  floors.  He  felt  self-con- 
scious when  he  looked  at  the  nudes,  and  he  blushed  when  he 
found  a  woman  standing  by  his  side  as  he  looked  at  the  por- 
trait of  Jean  Arnolfini  and  Jeanne  his  wife  by  van  Eyck. 
He  turned  hotly  away,  and  wondered  that  there  was  no 
blush  on  the  face  of  the  woman.  In  Ballyards,  a  man  al- 
ways pretended  not  to  see  a  woman  about  to  have  a  child 
.  .  .  unless,  of  course,  he  was  with  other  men  and  the 
woman  could  not  see  him,  when  he  would  crack  jokes  about 
her  condition !  .  .  .  Here,  however,  people  actually  exhib- 
ited pictures  of  pregnant  women  in  a  public  place  where  all 
sorts,  old  and  young,  male  and  female,  could  look  at  them 
.  .  .  and  no  one  appeared  to  mind.  It  might  be  all  right, 
of  course,  and  after  all  a  woman  in  that  way  was  natural 
enough  .  .  .  but  he  had  been  brought  up  to  be  ashamed  of 
seeing  such  things,  and  he  could  not  very  well  become  easy 
about  them  in  a  moment.  .  .  .  And  he  became  very  tired 
of  Holy  Families  and  Crucifixions!  .  .  . 

"  I  '11  walk  back  to  the  place, ' '  he  said  to  himself  as  he  left 
the  Gallery  and  crossed  Trafalgar  Square.  He  dappled  his 
fingers  in  the  water  of  one  of  the  fountains,  and  listened  to 
two  little  Cocknies  wrangling  together.  .  .  . 

"They've  a  queer  way  of  talking,"  he  said  to  himself. 

.  .  .  and  then  he  started  off  down  the  Strand  towards 
Fleet  Street  and  the  City.  Eleanor  Moore  was  not  in  the 
tea-shop  when  he  entered  it,  nor  did  she  come  into  it  while 
he  remained  there.  He  finished  his  meal  and  walked  in  the 
direction  of  the  Royal  Exchange  and  just  as  he  was  run- 


196  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

ning  out  of  the  way  of  a  'bus,  he  saw  her  going  towards 
the  stairs  leading  into  the  Tube. 

' '  There  she  is, ' '  he  murmured  and  hurried  after  her. 

She  was  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  when  he  reached  the 
top  of  them,  and  when  he  had  got  to  the  foot  of  them,  she 
was  almost  at  the  entrance  to  the  booking-office  of  the  Tube. 
He  tried  to  get  near  her  so  that  he  might  speak  to  her,  but 
the  press  of  people  going  home  prevented  him  from  doing 
so.  He  saw  her  go  down  the  steps  and  take  her  place  in 
the  queue  of  people  purchasing  tickets,  and  he  walked 
across  to  the  bookstall  and  stood  there  until  she  had  ob- 
tained her  ticket.  Then  as  she  walked  to  the  lift,  he  moved 
towards  her.  She  was  examining  her  change  as  she  walked 
along,  and  did  not  see  him  until  he  was  close  to  her.  He 
meant  to  say,  "Oh,  Miss  Moore,  may  I  speak  to  you  for  a 
moment ! ' '  but  suddenly  he  became  totally  inarticulate,  and 
while  he  was  struggling  to  say  something,  she  looked  up  and 
saw  him.  She  started  slightly,  then  her  face  became 
flushed,  and  she  hurried  forward  and  joined  the  group  of 
wedged  people  in  the  lift.  He  determined  to  follow  her, 
but  while  he  was  resolving  to  do  so,  the  lift  attendant 
shouted,  ' '  Next  lift,  please ! ' '  and  pulled  the  gates  together. 
He  watched  the  light  disappear  from  the  little  windows  at 
the  top  of  the  gates !  .  .  . 

"I've  missed  her  again,"  he  said. 

iii 

He  was  just  in  time  to  swallow  a  hurried  meal  and  set  off 
to  the  theatre  with  the  Creams.  Mrs.  Cream,  recovered 
from  the  devastating  effects  of  a  tragical  temperament,  was 
very  vivacious  as  they  sat  in  the  brougham ;  and  she  rallied 
him  on  his  authorship.  She  told  him  that  when  he  was  a 
celebrated  writer,  she  would  be  able  to  say  that  she  had  dis- 
covered him.  , 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  197 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  Dolly,"  said  her  husband,  "it  was 
me  that  thought  of  the  idea!" 

She  ignored  her  husband.  She  pretended  that  John 
would  become  too  proud  to  know  the  poor  little  Creams !  .  .  . 

"I'm  not  too  proud  to  know  anyone,"  he  interrupted. 

She  burbled  at  him,  and  pressed  closer  to  hiin.  "You're 
quite  complimentary,"  she  said. 

Cream  had  given  John  a  note  to  the  manager  of  the 
theatre  which  induced  that  gentleman  to  admit  him,  free  of 
charge,  to  the  stalls.  He  would  travel  home  by  himself,  for 
the  Creams  had  to  play  at  other  music-halls,  and  wrould  not 
be  able  to  take  him  back  to  Brixton  in  their  brougham. 
"We  finish  up  at  Walham  Green,"  said  Cream,  as  John  left 
the  carriage. 

He  waited  impatiently  for  the  performance  of  The  Girl 
Gets  Left,  and  he  had  an  extraordinary  sense  of  pleasure 
when  he  saw  Cream's  wistful  face  peering  through  a  win- 
dow immediately  after  the  curtain  went  up.  The  little  man 
was  remarkably  funny.  His  look,  his  voice,  his  gestures, 
all  compelled  laughter  from  the  audience  without  the  audi- 
ence understanding  quite  why  it  was  amused.  He  had  the 
pathetic  appearance  that  all  great  comedians  have,  the  look 
of  appeal  that  one  saw  in  the  face  of  Dan  Leno,  in  the  face 
of  James  Welch,  and  it  seemed  that  he  might  as  easily  cry 
as  laugh.  The  words  he  had  to  say  were  poor,  vapid  things, 
but  when  he  said  them,  he  put  some  of  his  own  life  into 
them  and  gave  them  a  greater  value  than  they  deserved. 
The  turn  of  his  head  was  comic;  a  queer  little  helpless 
movement  of  his  hands  was  comic ;  the  way  in  which  he 
seemed  to  stop  short  and  gulp  as  if  he  were  bracing  himself 
up  was  comic ;  the  swift  downward  and  then  upward  glance 
of  his  eyes,  followed  by  an  assumption  of  complete  humility 
and  resignation,  these  were  comic.  And  when  he  appeared 
on  the  stage,  the  audience,  knowing  something  of  his  qual- 
ity, collectively  lifted  itself  into  an  attitude  of  attention. 


198  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

A  dismal  young  woman,  singing  a  dreary  lecherous  song 
and  showing  an  immense  quantity  of  frilled  underclothing, 
had  occupied  five  or  six  minutes  in  boring  the  audience  be- 
fore The  Girl  Gets  Left  began ;  and  an  air  of  lassitude  had 
enveloped  the  men  who  were  sitting  in  relaxed  attitudes  in 
the  theatre.  Their  eyes  seemed  to  become  dull,  and  they 
paid  more  attention  to  their  pipes  and  their  cigarettes  than 
they  paid  to  the  young  woman's  underclothing.  .  .  .  But 
when  The  Girl  Gets  Left  began,  and  the  whimsical  face  of 
Cream  was  seen  peering  through  the  window  of  the  scene, 
the  lassitude  was  lifted  and  the  men's  eyes  began  to 
brighten  again.  The  first  words,  the  first  gesture  of  comic 
helplessness,  from  Cream  sent  a  ripple  of  laughter  round 
the  theatre,  and  immediately  the  place  was  full  of  that 
queer,  uncontrollable  thing,  personality. 

John  laughed  heartily  at  the  acting  of  his  new  friend,  and 
he  decided  that  he  would  certainly  try  to  write  a  play  for 
him.  How  good  Mrs.  Cream  must  be  if  she  were  better 
than  her  husband,  as  he  so  proudly  declared  she  was.  It 
would  be  a  privilege  to  write  a  play  for  people  so  clever. 
.  .  .  Then  Mrs.  Cream,  magnificently  dressed,  appeared, 
and  as  she  did  so,  some  of  the  atmosphere  that  enveloped 
the  stage  and  the  auditorium  and  made  them  one  and  very 
intimate,  was  dispelled.  John  watched  her  as  she  moved 
about  the  stage,  and  wondered  why  it  was  that  the  audience 
had  suddenly  become  a  little  fidgetty.  His  eyes  were  full 
of  astonishment.  He  gazed  at  Mrs.  Cream  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  understand  some  ineluctable  mystery.  .  .  .  He 
remembered  how  enthralled  he  had  been  by  the  acting  of  the 
girl  who  had  played  Juliet.  'He  had  been  caught  up  and 
transported  from  the  theatre  to  the  very  streets  of  Verona. 
He  had  felt  that  he  was  one  of  the  crowd  that  followed  the 
Montagues  or  the  Capulets,  and  had  been  ready  to  bite  his 
thumb  with  the  best.  .  .  .  But  here  was  something  that  left 
him  uneasy  and  alien.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  prying  into 
private  affairs,  that  at  any  moment  someone,  a  policeman, 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  199 

perhaps,  might  come  along  and  seize  him  for  trespassing. 
He  did  not  then  know  that  bad  acting  always  leaves  an 
audience  with  a  sensation  of  having  intruded  upon  priva- 
cies .  .  .  that  an  actor  who  is  incompetent  leaves  the  peo- 
ple who  see  him  acting  badly  with  the  feeling  that  they  have 
vulgarly  peeped  into  his  dressing-room  and  seen  him  taking 
off  his  wig  and  wiping  the  paint  from  his  face.  Mrs.  Cream 
acted  with  great  vigour;  her  voice  roared  over  the  foot- 
lights; and  she  seemed  to  hurl  herself  about  the  scene  as  if 
she  were  determined  either  to  smash  the  furniture  or  to 
smash  herself.  She  made  much  noise.  Her  gestures  were 
lavish.  Her  dresses  were  very  costly  and  full  of  glitter. 
She  worked  hard.  .  .  . 

"But  she  can't  act,"  said  John  to  himself,  sighing  with 
relief  when  at  last  she  left  the  stage  to  her  husband. 

The  little  man's  small,  fragile  voice,  with  its  comic  hesi- 
tation and  its  puzzled  note,  sounded  very  restful  after  the 
torrential  noises  made  by  his  wife,  and  in  a  few  moments 
he  had  the  minds  of  the  audience  fused  again  into  one 
mind  and  made  completely  attentive.  When  the  play  was 
ended,  there  was  very  hearty  applause,  but  none  of  it  so 
hearty  as  the  applause  from  John.  The  last  few  moments 
of  the  piece  had  been  given  to  Mr.  Cream,  and  he  had  left 
the  audience  with  the  pleased  impression  of  himself  and 
forgetful  of  the  jar  it  had  received  from  his  wife.  .  .  . 

' '  That  wee  man  can  act  all  right, ' '  said  John,  clapping  his 
hands  until  they  were  sore. 

iv 

Hinde  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  sitting-room  when  he 
returned  to  the  lodging-house. 

"What  did  you  think  of  the  Creams?"  the  journalist 
asked  when  they  had  greeted  each  other  and  had  ended  their 
congratulations  on  being  Ulstermen. 

' '  He 's  very  good, ' '  John  began.  .  .  . 


200  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"And  she's  rotten?"  Hinde  interrupted. 

"Well!  .  .  ." 

' '  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  you  needn  't  be  afraid  of  telling  me 
what  you  think.  There's  only  one  person  in  the  world  who 
doesn  't  realise  that  Mrs.  Cream  can 't  act  and  never  will  be 
able  to  act  .  .  .  and  that's  poor  old  Cream  himself.  He's 
as  good  a  comedian  as  there  is  in  the  world — that  little 
man:  the  essence  of  Cockney  wit;  and  he  does  not  know 
how  good  he  is.  He  thinks  that  she  is  much  better  than  he 
can  ever  hope  to  be,  and  she  thinks  so,  too ;  but  if  it  were  not 
for  him,  MacDermott,  she  wouldn't  get  thirty  shillings  a 
week  in  a  penny  gaff ! ' ' 

' '  They  've  asked  me  to  write  a  play  for  them, ' '  John  said. 

"Are  you  going  to  do  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  That  play  to-night  was  a  very  common 
sort  of  a  piece.  It's  not  the  style  of  play  I  want  to 
do!  .  .  ." 

"What  style  of  play  do  you  want  to  do?"  Hinde  asked. 

"Good  plays.     Plays  like  Shakespeare  wrote." 

Hinde  looked  at  him  quickly.  "Oh,  well,"  he  said, 
"there's  no  harm  in  aiming  high!" 

John  told  him  of  the  book  he  had  written  at  Ballyards, 
and  of  the  story  he  had  sent  to  Blackwood's  Magazine. 

"  I  've  a  great  ambition  to  do  big  things, ' '  he  ended. 

"There's  no  harm  in  that  either,"  Hinde  replied.  "In 
the  meantime,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  It  '11  be  a  wheen 
of  years  yet  before  you  can  hope  to  get  anything  big 
done!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  John  answered  con- 
fidently. "The  MacDermotts  are  great  people  for  getting 
their  own  way!" 

"Mebbe  they  are  ...  in  Ballyards,"  Hinde  retorted, 
"but  this  isn't  Ballyards.  And  you  can't  spend  all  your 
time  writing  masterpieces.  You'll  have  to  do  a  wee  bit  of 
ordinary  common  work.  What  about  trying  to  get  a  job 
on  a  paper?" 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  201 

"I  don't  mind  taking  a  job  if  there's  one  to  be  got.  Only 
what  sort  of  a  job  ?  .  .  . " 

Hinde  teased  him.  "They'll  not  let  you  edit  the  Times 
yet  awhile, ' '  he  said. 

"I  don't  want  to  edit  it,"  John  replied. 

"Well,  that's  a  lucky  thing  for  the  man  that's  got  the 
job  now!" 

John  felt  aggrieved  at  once.  "You're  coddin'  me,"  he 
complained. 

"Say  that  again,"  Hinde  exclaimed  enthusiastically. 

"Say  what  again?" 

"Say  I'm  coddin'  you.  I  haven't  heard  that  word  for 
years.  Gwon !  Say  it ! " 

"You 're  coddin 'me!  .  .  ." 

"Isn't  it  lovely?  Isn't  it  a  grand  word,  that?  Good 
Ulster  talk!  ..." 

The  door  opened  and  Lizzie  entered  the  room. 

"Mr.  'Inde!  ..."  she  said. 

"Don't  call  me  'Inde,"  he  shouted,  jumping  up  from 
his  chair.  ' '  What  do  you  think  the  letter  h  was  put  in  the 
alphabet  for  ?  For  you  to  leave  it  out  ? ' ' 

Lizzie  smiled  amiably  at  him.  "Ow,  go  on,"  she  said, 
"you're  always  'avin'  me  on!"  She  turned  to  John. 
"  'E  's  a  'oly  terror,  'e  is.  Talks  about  me  speakin '  funny, 
but  wot  about  'im?  I  think  Irish  is  the  comicest  way  of 
talkin'  I  ever  heard.  Wot '11  you  'ave  for  your  breakfis, 
Mr.  'Inde?" 

"ffinde,  woman,  Hinde!  .  .  ." 

"Well,  wot '11  you  'ave  for  your  breakfis?" 

"One  of  these  days  I'll  have  you  fried  and  boiled  and 
stewed!  ..." 

Lizzie  giggled. 

"Ow,  you  are  a  funny  man,  Mr.  'Inde,"  she  said  between 
her  titters. 

Hinde  gaped  at  her  as  if  he  were  incapable  of  expressing 
himself  in  adequate  language. 


202  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"That  female,"  he  said  turning  to  John,  "always  tells 
me  I  'm  a  funny  man  !  .  .  . " 

"Well,  so  you  are,  Mr.  'Inde!"  Lizzie  interrupted. 

"Get  out,"  he  roared  at  her. 

Lizzie  addressed  John.  "You'll  get  used  to  'is  comic 
ways  when  you  know  'im  as  well  as  I  do.  Wot  '11  you  'ave 
for  breakfis?"  she  continued,  speaking  again  to  Hinde. 

"Anything,"  he  replied.  "Anything  on  God's  earth,  so 
long  as  you  get  out ! ' ' 

"That's  all  I  wanted  to  know,"  said  Lizzie.  "It'll  be 
'am  an'  eggs.  Goo '-night,  Mr.  MacDermott!" 

' '  Good-night,  Lizzie, ' '  John  murmured. 

"Goo '-night,  Mr.  'Inde!" 

"Come  here!"  said  Hinde. 

She  came  across  the  room  and  stood  beside  him.  He 
took  hold  of  her  chin.  "If  you  hadn't  such  a  rotten  ac- 
cent," he  said,  "I'd  marry  you!" 

She  giggled.  ' '  You  do  myke  me  laugh,  Mr.  'Inde ! ' '  she 
said. 

"Hinde,  woman,  flmde!  ..." 

She  moved  away  from  him  as  if  he  had  uttered  some 
perfectly  commonplace  remark.  "Very  well,"  she  said, 
"it'll  be  'am  an'  eggs  for  breakfis.  I'm  glad  you  chose 
them,  because  we  ain  't  got  nothink  else  in  the  'ouse.  Goo  '- 
night,  all!" 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  but  hardly  had  she  shut  the 
door  behind  her,  when  she  opened  it  again. 

"  'Ere's  the  Creams  'ome  again!"  she  said.  "Goo'- 
night  all!" 


A  few  minutes  later,  Cream  tapped  on  their  door  and,  in 
response  to  Hinde 's  "Come  in!"  entered.  He  greeted 
Hinde  lavishly,  and  then  turned  to  John. 

"Well,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  think  of  her? 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  203 

Great,  isn't  she?  Absolute  eye-opener,  that's  what  she  is. 
I  knew  you'd  be  struck  dumb  by  her.  That's  the  effect  she 
has  on  people.  Paralyses  them.  Lays  'em  out.  By  Gum, 
Mac,  that  woman 's  a  wonder !  .  .  . " 

"How  is  she?"  John  asked. 

Cream  shook  his  head.  "All  in  bits,  as  usual,  Mac.  I 
ought  not  to  let  her  do  the  work  ...  it's  wearing  her  out 
.  .  .  but  you  can't  keep  a  great  artist  away  from  the  stage. 
She'd  die  quicker  if  she  weren't  doing  her  work  than  she 
will  while  she's  doing.  That's  Art,  Mac.  Extraordinary 
thing,  Art!  .  .  ." 

"Have  a  drink,  Cream,"  Hinde  exclaimed. 

"I  don't  mind  if  I  do,  Hinde,  old  chap.  Did  you  notice 
how  she  held  the  audience,  Mac?  The  minute  she  stepped 
on  to  the  stage,  she  got  'em.  Absolute !  She  played  with 
'em  ...  did  what  she  liked  with  'em !  .  .  .  I  wish  I  could 
get  hold  of  'em  like  that.  By  Heaven,  Mac,  it  must  be 
wonderful  to  have  that  woman 's  power  to  make  an  audience 
do  just  what  you  want  it  to  do!  .  .  ." 

Hinde  handed  a  glass  of  whiskey  and  soda  to  him. 
' '  Thanks,  old  chap ! "  he  said,  taking  it  from  him.  He 
raised  the  glass.  ' '  Well,  here 's  health ! "  he  murmured, 
swallowing  some  of  the  drink.  He  put  the  glass  down  on 
the  table  beside  him.  ' '  When  do  you  think  you  '11  be  able 
to  let  us  have  the  manuscript  of  the  play,  Mac?" 

John  started.  "Well,"  he  began  nervously,  "well,  I 
haven 't  thought  much  about  it  yet !  .  .  . " 

"Look  here,"  said  Cream,  "I've  been  talking  to  Dolly 
about  the  matter,  and  this  is  her  idea.  She  wants  to  play 
in  a  piece  about  a  naval  lieutenant.  See?  In  a  sub- 
marine or  something.  Something  with  a  bit  of  snap  in  it. 
She'd  like  to  be  an  Irish  girl  called  Kitty  in  love  with  the 
lieutenant.  See?  Make  it  so's  he  can  wear  his  uniform 
and  a  cocked  hat  and  a  sword.  See?  The  audience  likes 
to  see  a  bit  of  style.  You  could  put  a  comic  stoker  in  ... 
that  'ud  do  for  me,  but  of  course  as  I  told  you,  you  needn't 


204  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

worry  much  about  my  part.  I'll  look  after  myself.  Now, 
do  you  think  you  could  do  anything  with  that  idea? 
Dolly 's  dead  set  on  playing  an  Irish  girl,  and  of  course,  you 
being  Irish  and  all  that,  you'd  know  the  ropes!" 

"I'll  think  about  it,"  said  John. 

"Do.  That's  a  good  chap.  And  perhaps  you  can  let 
me  have  the  manuscript  at  the  end  of  the  week  ...  in  the 
rough  anyhow ! ' ' 

He  finished  his  whiskey  and  soda. 

"Have  another?"  Ilinde  said. 

"No,  thanks,  no.  You  know,  Mac,  the  stage  is  a  funny 
place.  The  average  author  doesn't  realise  what  a  funny 
place  it  is.  I've  met  a  few  authors  in  my  time,  high-brow 
and  low-brow  and  no-brow-at-all,  and  they  're  all  the  same : 
think  they  know  more  about  the  theatre  than  the  actor 
does.  But  they  don't.  They  all  want  to  be  littery.  And 
that's  no  good  ...  in  the  music-halls  anyhow.  If  you've 
got  anything  to  say  to  a  music-hall  audience,  don't  waste 
time  in  being  littery  or  anything  like  that.  Bung  It  At 
'Em,  Mac ! ' '  He  pronounced  the  last  injunction  with 
enormous  emphasis.  "An  audience  is  about  the  thickest 
thing  on  earth.  Got  no  brains  to  speak  of,  and  doesn  't  want 
to  have  any.  Mind  you,  each  person  in  the  audience  may 
be  as  clever  as  you  like,  but  as  an  audience  ...  see?  ... 
they're  simply  thick.  And  if  you  want  'em  to  understand 
anything,  you've  got  to  Bung  It  At  'Em.  No  use  being 
delicate  or  pretty  or  anything  like  that.  That's  what  au- 
thors don't  understand.  Now,  you  heard  those  back-chat- 
comedians  at  the  Oxford  to-night  ? ' ' 

John  nodded  his  head.  "They  weren't  much  good,"  he 
said. 

"Why?"  Cream  demanded,  and  then,  before  John  could 
speak,  he  went  on  to  give  the  answer  to  his  question.  ' '  Be- 
cause they  don't  know  how  to  get  their  stuff  over  the  foot- 
lights. That's  why!  They  had  good  stuff  to  work  with, 
but  they  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  I  could  have  told 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  205 

'em.     Do   you   remember  that   joke   about   the   dog  that 
swallowed  the  tape-measure  and  died?" 

"Yes.     It  sounded  rather  silly!  ..." 

"And  it  didn't  get  a  laugh.  The  silliness  of  a  thing 
doesn't  matter  if  it  makes  you  laugh.  This  is  how  they 
said  it.  The  tall  chap  says  to  the  little  one,  'How's  your 
dog,  Joe?'  and  the  little  one  answered,  'Oh,  he  died  last 
week.  He  swallowed  a  tape-measure  and  died  by 
inches! 

Hinde  laughed.  "Do  people  pay  good  money  to  listen 
to  that  sort  of  stuff?" 

"You're  a  journalist,"  Cream  replied,  "and  you  ought 
to  know  they  pay  money  to  read  worse  than  that ! ' ' 

"So  they  do,"  Hinde  admitted. 

"When  I  heard  those  two  duffers  ruining  that  joke," 
Cream  continued,  "I  felt  as  if  I  wanted  to  run  on  to  the 
stage  and  tell  'em  how  to  get  it  over  to  the  audience.  This 
is  how  they  ought  to  have  done  it ! " 

He  stood  up  and  enacted  the  characters  of  the  two  back- 
chat  comedians,  and  as  John  watched  him  and  listened  to 
him,  he  realised  what  a  great  actor  the  little  man  was. 

"Say,  Joe,  what're  you  in  mourning  for?" 

"I'm  in  mourning  for  my  little  dog!" 

"Your  little  dog.     Why,  your  little  dog  ain't  dead,  is  itf" 

"Yes,  my  little  dog's  dead!" 

"Well,  Joe,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  your  little  dog's  dead. 
What  was  the  matter  with  your  little  dog?" 

"My  little  dog  died  last  week." 

"Yes,  your  little  dog  died  last  week?  ..." 

"He  swallowed  a  tape-measure!  ..." 

"Good  heavens,  your  little  dog  swallowed  a  tape- 
measure?" 

"Yes,  my  little  dog  swallowed  a  tape  measure,  and  HE 
DIED  BY  INCHES!" 

Cream  sat  down  when  he  had  finished  giving  his  perform- 
ance. "That's  how  they  ought  to  have  done  it,"  he  said. 


206  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

' '  It  makes  me  angry  to  see  men  ruining  a  good  story.  You 
see,  Mac,  you've  got  to  lead  up  to  things.  Everything  in 
this  world  has  to  be  led  up  to.  You  can't  rush  bald-headed 
at  anything.  And  you've  got  to  get  a  climax.  These  back- 
chat  chaps  hadn't  got  a  climax.  The  joke  was  over  before 
the  audience  had  time  to  realise  it  was  a  joke.  See?" 

"I  see,"  said  John. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Cream  went  downstairs  to  his  own 
room. 

"That  little  man  knows  just  how  to  get  an  effect,"  said 
Hinde.  "The  amazing  thing  about  him  is  that  he  doesn't 
know  that  he  can  act  and  that  his  wife  can 't !  .  .  . " 

' '  Why  do  you  call  her  his  wife  ? ' '  John  replied. 

"Out  of  civility,"  said  Hinde.  "I  don't  see  that  it 
matters  much  whether  she  is  or  not ! ' ' 

' '  That 's  what  Lizzie  says. ' ' 

' '  Lizzie  is  an  intelligent  woman.  I  hope  you  don 't  think 
I  was  rude  to  Lizzie  just  now  ?  .  .  . " 

' '  Oh,  no, ' '  John  answered  insincerely. 

"I  wouldn't  hurt  Lizzie's  feelings  for  the  world,"  said 
Hinde.  "I'm  going  to  bed  now,  but  you  needn't  hurry 
unless  you  want  to.  I'm  tired,  and  I  shall  have  a  busy 
day  to-morrow.  I'll  see  if  there's  any  work  that  would 
suit  you  on  my  paper.  You  ought  to  have  some  sort  of  a 
job  besides  scribbling  masterpieces.  I  suppose  you  left  a 
girl  behind  you  in  Ballyards?" 

John 's  face  flushed.     ' '  No, ' '  he  replied. 

"That's  good,"  Hinde  said.  "You'll  be  able  to  get  on 
with  your  work  instead  of  wasting  time  writing  letters  to 
a  girl.  Good-night ! ' ' 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Hinde!"  said  John,  suddenly  cere- 
monious. 

"Not  so  much  of  the  Mister.  Call  me  Hinde.  I  think 
I  '11  follow  Cream 's  example  and  call  you  Mac ! ' ' 

"Very  well,  Hinde,"  said  John. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  207 

"We'll  go  up  to  town  in  the  morning  together,  if  you 
like!" 

' '  I  would, ' '  said  John. 

vi 

John's  dreams  that  night  were  queerly  complicated. 
Eleanor  Moore  flitted  through  a  scene  on  a  submarine  in 
which  a  dog  was  dying  by  inches  while  a  naval  lieutenant 
made  passionate  love  to  an  Irish  girl  called  Kitty;  and 
while  Eleanor  passed  vaguely  from  side  to  side  of  the  sub- 
marine, a  gigantic  piece  of  red  tape  came  and  enveloped 
her  and  enveloped  John,  too,  when,  unaccountably,  he  ap- 
peared and  tried  to  save  her.  He  felt  himself  being 
strangled  by  red  tape,  and  he  knew  that  Eleanor  was  being 
strangled,  too.  He  felt  that  if  only  the  dog  would  eat  the 
red  tape,  both  Eleanor  and  he  would  be  delivered  from  it, 
but  somehow  the  Irish  girl  called  Kitty  prevented  the  dog 
from  eating  it.  And  in  the  dream,  he  called  pitifully  to 
Eleanor,  "She  won't  let  us  work  up  to  a  climax!  She's 
preventing  us  from  working  up  to  a  climax !  .  .  . " 


THE  THIRD  CHAPTER 


AT  the  end  of  a  month  from  the  day  on  which  he  arrived 
in  London,  John  MacDermott  began  to  consider  his  position 
and  ended  by  finding  it  in  a  very  unsatisfactory  state.  He 
had  spent  much  of  his  time  in  sight-seeing,  and  would  have 
spent  more  of  it,  had  not  Hinde  informed  him  that  the 
only  way  in  which  to  know  a  city  is  to  live  in  it,  not  as  a 
tourist,  but  as  an  ordinary  citizen.  ' '  Change  your  lodgings 
every  twelve  months,"  he  said,  "and  go  and  live  in  a 
different  part  of  the  town  every  time  you  change  them. 
Then  you  '11  get  to  know  London.  It 's  no  use  tearing  round 
the  place  like  an  American  .  .  .  half  an  hour  here  and  a 
couple  of  minutes  there,  and  a  Baedeker  never  out  of  your 
hands.  Americans  think  they  're  getting  an  impression  of  a 
country  when  they  're  only  getting  a  sick-headache ;  and 
when  they  go  home  again,  they  can  never  remember 
whether  Mont  Blanc  was  a  picture  they  saw  in  Paris  or  a 
London  chop-house  where  they  had  old  English  fare  at 
modern  English  prices.  If  you  want  to  know  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral,  don't  go  there  with  a  guide-book  in  your  hand. 
Go  as  one  of  the  congregation !  .  .  . " 

He  had  sent  the  manuscript  of  his  novel  to  a  publisher 
who  had  not  yet  expressed  any  eagerness  to  accept  it,  and 
he  had  made  a  half-hearted  effort  to  write  a  play  for  the 
Creams,  but  had  not  been  very  successful  with  it,  chiefly 
because  he  felt  contempt  for  The  Girl  Gets  Left  and  had 
little  liking  for  Mrs.  Cream.  She  came  to  the  sitting-room 
one  morning  when  Hinde  was  away  and  her  husband  was 
interviewing  his  agent,  and  went  straight  to  John,  nibbling 

208 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  209 

a  pen  at  the  writing  desk,  and  put  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"Don't  do  that,"  he  said,  disengaging  her  arms  from 
about  him. 

"I  love  you,"  she  replied  very  intensely. 

"I  daresay,  but  I'm  not  in  love  with  you,  Mrs.  Cream, 
and  I  never  will  be.  I  don't  like  you.  I  like  your  wee 
man,  but  I  don't  like  you.  I  think  you're  an  awful  hum- 
bug of  a  woman!  ..." 

Mrs.  Cream  stood  still  as  if  she  had  been  suddenly 
paralysed. 

''You  don't  like  me!  .  .  ."  she  said  at  last,  utterly  in- 
credulous. 

"No,  I  don't." 

"Oh!" 

She  raised  her  hands,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  imagined 
that  she  was  about  to  strike  him.  Then  she  dropped  them 
to  her  side  again  and  laughed. 

"I  don't  know  whether  to  hug  you  or  slap  you,"  she 
said.  "  You  impudent  brat !" 

' '  I  wouldn  't  advise  you  to  do  either  the  one  or  the  other, ' ' 
he  answered. 

She  came  nearer  to  him,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve. 

"You're  very  cold  and  hard,"  she  said,  and  then,  in  a 
softer  voice,  she  added  his  name,  "John!" 

' '  What 's  cold  about  me  ?     Or  hard  ? "  he  asked. 

"Everything.  You  must  know  that  I  feel  more  for  you 
than  for  my  husband !  .  .  . " 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  for  saying  such  a 
thing,  Mrs.  Cream.  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I'm 
not  that  sort.  I  come  from  Ballyards,  and  we  don't  do 
things  like  that  there.  Forby,  I'm  not  in  love  with  you. 
I'm  in  love  with  somebody  else  ...  a  nice  girl,  not  a 
married  woman  .  .  .  and  I've  no  time  to  think  of  anybody 
else  but  her.  I  'm  very  busy  the  day,  Mrs.  Cream !  .  .  . " 

' '  Is  she  an  Irish  girl  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know  what  nationality  she  is.     I've  not  man- 


210  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

aged  to  get  speaking  to  her  yet.  It'll  be  an  advantage  if 
she  is  Irish,  but  I'll  overlook  it  if  she  isn't.  I'm  terrible 
busy,  Mrs.  Cream  ! ' ' 

She  stood  before  him  in  an  indecisive  attitude.  .  .  . 
' '  You  're  really  a  fool, ' '  she  said,  turning  away.  ' '  I  thought 
you  were  clever,  but  you  're  simply  thick-headed !  .  .  . " 

' '  Because  I  won 't  start  making  love  to  you,  I  suppose  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  MacDermott.  You're  thick  apart  from 
that.  You're  so  thick  that  you'll  never  know  how  thick 
you  are.  I  can 't  think  why  I  wasted  a  minute 's  thought  on 
you!  .  .  ." 

John  sat  down  at  his  desk  again.  "Sticks  an'  stones  'II 
break  my  bones,  but  names  'II  never  hurt  me,"  he  quoted 
at  her.  "When  you're  dead  and  in  your  grave,  you'll 
suffer  for  what  you  called  me!" 

She  came  behind  him  and  put  her  arms  tightly  round  his 
neck  and  forced  his  head  back  so  that  she  could  conveniently 
kiss  him. 

' '  There ! ' '  she  exclaimed,  hurrying  from  the  room. 
' '  I  've  kissed  you  anyhow ! ' ' 

He  leaped  up  and  ran  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  leant 
over  the  banisters. 

"If  you  do  that  again,"  he  shouted  at  her,  "I'll  give 
you  in  charge ! ' ' 

"Bogie-bogie!"  she  mocked. 

Soon  after  that  time,  the  Creams  had  gone  on  tour  again, 
and  John,  with  a  vague  promise  to  Mr.  Cream  that  he  would 
try  and  do  a  play  for  him,  let  Mrs.  Cream  slip  out  of  his 
mind  altogether.  She  had  not  attempted  to  make  love  to 
him  again,  and  her  attitude  towards  him  became  more 
natural,  almost,  he  thought,  more  friendly.  She  appeared 
to  bear  him  no  malice,  and  her  friendliness  caused  him  to 
shed  some  of  his  antagonism  to  her.  When  they  bade  good- 
bye to  Hinde  and  John,  she  turned  to  her  husband  as  they 
were  leaving,  and  said,  ' '  I  kissed  him  one  morning,  and  do 
you  know  what  he  did  ? ' ' 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  211 

"No,"  her  husband  answered. 

"He  said  he'd  give  me  in  charge  if  I  tried  to  do  it 
again, ' '  she  exclaimed,  laughing  as  she  spoke. 

' '  Goo '  Lor ' ! "  said  Cream.  ' '  That 's  the  first  time  that 's 
ever  been  said  to  you,  Dolly!"  He  turned  to  John. 
"You're  a  funny  sort  of  a  chap,  you  are!  Fancy  not  let- 
ting Dolly  kiss  you.  Goo'  Lor' !" 

ii 

He  had  tried  hard  to  see  Eleanor  Moore  again,  but  with- 
out success.  Every  day  for  a  fortnight  he  went  to  lunch  in 
the  tea-shop  where  he  had  first  seen  her,  and  in  the  evening 
he  would  hang  about  the  entrance  to  the  offices  where  she 
was  employed ;  but  he  did  not  see  her  either  there  or  in  the 
tea-shop,  and  when  a  fortnight  of  disappointment  had  gone 
by,  he  concluded  that  he  would  never  see  her  again.  He 
imagined  that  she  was  ill,  that  she  had  left  London,  that 
she  had  obtained  work  elsewhere,  that  he  had  frightened 
her  .  .  .  for  he  remembered  her  startled  look  when  she 
hurried  from  him  into  the  Tube  lift  .  .  .  and  finally  and 
crushingly  that  she  had  married  someone  else.  In  the 
mood  of  bitterness  that  followed  this  devastating  thought, 
he  planned  a  tragedy,  and  in  the  evenings,  when  Hinde 
was  engaged  for  his  paper,  he  worked  at  it.  But  the  bitter- 
ness which  he  put  into  it  failed  to  relieve  him  of  any  of  the 
bitterness  that  was  in  his  own  mind.  He  felt  doubly  be- 
trayed by  Eleanor  Moore  because  he  had  had  so  little  en- 
couragement from  her.  It  hurt  him  to  think  that  he  had 
only  succeeded  in  alarming  her.  Maggie  Carmichael  had 
responded  instantly  when  he  spoke  to  her  and  had  accepted 
his  embraces  and  his  kisses  as  amiably  as  she  had  accepted 
his  chocolates  he  had  bought  for  her;  but  this  girl  with 
the  tender  blue  eyes  that  changed  their  expression  so  fre- 
quently, had  made  no  response  to  his  oft'er  of  affection,  had 
run  away  from  it.  If  only  she  had  listened  to  him!  He 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

was  certain  that  he  could  have  persuaded  her  to  "go  out" 
with  him.  He  had  only  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her,  and 
she  would  realise  that  a  man  who  could  fall  in  love  with 
her  so  immediately  as  he  had  done  must  be  acceptable! 
.  .  .  The  affair  with  Maggie  Carmichael  had  considerably 
dashed  his  belief  in  romantic  love,  but  he  told  himself  now 
that  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  condemn  his  Uncle  Mat- 
thew 's  ideals  because  one  girl  had  fallen  short  of  them.  If 
Maggie  Carmichael  had  behaved  badly,  that  was  not  a  sign 
that  Eleanor  Moore  would  also  behave  badly.  Besides, 
Eleanor  was  different  from  Maggie.  There  was  no  com- 
parison between  the  two  girls.  After  all,  he  had  not  really 
cared  for  Maggie:  he  had  only  fancied  that  he  cared  for 
her.  But  there  was  no  fancying  or  imagination  about  his 
love  for  Eleanor,  and  if  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet 
her  again,  he  would  not  let  anything  prevent  him  from  tell- 
ing her  plump  and  plain  that  he  wanted  to  marry  her. 
Whenever  he  left  the  house,  he  looked  about,  no  matter 
where  he  went,  in  the  hope  that  he  might  see  her. 

iii 

Hinde  urged  him  to  do  journalism  and  advised  him  to 
make  a  study  of  the  London  newspapers  so  that  he  might 
discover  which  of  them  he  could  most  happily  work  for. 
' '  You  could  do  a  few  articles,  perhaps,  and  then  it  wouldn  't 
matter  whether  you  agreed  with  the  paper  or  not,  but  I'd 
advise  you  to  try  and  get  a  job  on  one  paper  for  a  while. 
You'll  learn  a  lot  from  journalism  if  you  don't  stay  at  it 
too  long.  It'll  be  a  good  while  yet  before  you  can  make  a 
living  at  writing  books,  and  you'll  want  something  to  keep 
you  going  until  you  can.  Journalism's  as  good  as  any- 
thing, and  in  some  ways,  it's  a  lot  better  than  most  things, 
and  let  me  tell  you,  Mac,  anybody  can  make  a  decent  living 
out  of  newspapers  if  he  only  takes  the  trouble  to  earn  it. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  213 

Half  the  fellows  in  Fleet  Street  treat  journalism  as  if  it 
were  a  religious  vocation,  and  they  lie  about  in  pubs  all  day 
waiting  for  the  Holy  Ghost  to  come  down  and  inspire  them 
with  a  scoop ! ' ' 

John  studied  the  London  newspapers,  as  Hinde  advised 
him,  but  he  did  not  feel  drawn  towards  them.  He  consid- 
ered that  the  morning  papers  were  very  inferior  to  the 
Northern  Whig,  and  he  was  certain  that  the  North  Down 
Herald  was  far  more  interesting  than  the  Times.  The  Lon- 
don evening  papers,  he  said  to  Hinde,  gave  less  value  for  a 
half-penny  than  the  Belfast  Evening  Telegraph,  and  he 
complained  that  there  was  nothing  to  read  in  them. 

' '  You  '11  have  to  start  a  paper  yourself,  Mac, ' '  said  Hinde. 
"All  the  best  papers  were  started  by  men  who  couldn't  find 
anything  to  read  in  other  papers.  It  would  be  a  grand 
notion  now  to  set  up  a  paper  for  Ulstermen  who  can't  find 
anything  in  London  that's  fit  to  read.  By  the  Hokey  0, 
that  would  be  a  grand  notion.  We  could  call  the  paper 
To  Hell  With  the  Pope  or  No  Surrender!  .  .  ." 

' '  Ah,  quit  your  codding, ' '  John  interrupted.  ' '  You  know 
rightly  what's  wrong  with  these  London  papers.  They're 
not  telling  the  truth ! ' ' 

"And  do  you  think  the  Whig  and  the  Telegraph  are?" 
Hinde  demanded. 

"Well,  it's  what  we  call  the  truth  anyway,"  John 
stoutly  retorted. 

Hinde  slapped  him  on  the  back.  "That's  right,"  he 
said.  "Ulster  against  the  whole  civilised  world!" 

"If  I  was  to  take  a  job  on  one  of  these  papers,"  John 
continued,  "I'd  insist  on  telling  the  truth  to  the  people!" 

"You  would,  would  you?  And  do  you  know  what  'ud 
happen  to  you?  The  people  'ud  cut  your  head  off  at  the 
end  of  a  fortnight. ' ' 

"I  wouldn't  let  them." 

Hinde  sat  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes.     Then  he  leant 


214,  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

forward  and  tapped  John  on  the  shoulder.  ' '  The  editor  of 
the  Daily  Sensation  is  a  Tyrone  man, ' '  he  said.  ' '  He  comes 
from  Cookstown !  .  .  . " 

' '  I  never  was  in  it, ' '  John  murmured. 

'  'Mebbe  not,  but  it  exists  all  the  same.  Go  up  the  morrow 
evening  to  his  office  and  tell  him  you  want  a  job  on  his 
paper  so 's  you  can  start  telling  everybody  the  truth.  And 
see  what  happens  to  you. ' ' 

John  answered  angrily.  "You  think  you're  having  me 
on,"  he  said,  "but  you're  queerly  mistaken.  I  will  go, 
and  we  '11  see  what  happens ! ' ' 

"That's  what  I'm  bidding  you  do,"  Hinde  continued. 
' '  And  listen !  There 's  a  couple  I  know,  called  Haverstock, 
living  out  at  Hampstead.  They  have  discussions  every 
month  at  their  house  on  some  subject  or  other,  and  there's 
to  be  one  next  Wednesday.  Will  you  come  with  me  if  I 
go  to  it?" 

John  nodded  his  head. 

"Good!  The  Haverstocks '11  be  glad  to  welcome  you  as 
you  're  a  friend  of  mine,  but  it 's  not  them  I  'm  wanting  you 
to  see.  It's  the  crowd  they  get  round  them.  All  the 
cranks  and  oddities  and  solemn  mugs  of  London  seem  to  go 
to  that  house  one  time  or  another,  and  I  'd  just  like  you  to 
have  a  look  at  some  of  them.  The  minute  they  find  out 
you're  Irish,  they'll  plaster  you  with  praise.  They'll  ex- 
pect you  to  talk  like  a  clown  one  minute,  and  weep  bitter 
tears  over  England's  tyranny  the  next.  They're  all  Eng- 
lish, most  of  them,  and  they  '11  tell  you  that  England  is  the 
worst  country  in  the  world,  and  that  Ireland  would  be  the 
greatest  if  it  weren't  for  the  fact  that  some  piffling  Balkan 
State  is  greater.  And  they'll  ram  Truth  down  your  throat 
till  you're  sick  of  it.  You've  only  to  bleat  about  Ireland's 
woes  to  them,  and  call  yourself  a  member  of  a  subject  race, 
and  they'll  be  all  over  you  before  you  know  where  you  are. 
There's  only  one  other  man  has  a  better  chance  of  shining 
in  their  society  than  an  Irishman,  and  that's  an  Armenian." 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  215 

"Well,  that's  great  credit  to  them,"  John  replied.  "I 
must  say  it  makes  me  think  well  of  the  English !  .  .  . " 

''Don't  do  that.  Never  acknowledge  to  an  Englishman 
that  you  think  well  of  him.  He'll  think  little  of  you  if 
you  do.  Tell  him  he's  a  fool,  that  he's  muddle-headed, 
that  he 's  a  tyrant,  that  he 's  a  materialist  and  a  compromiser 
and  a  hypocrite,  and  he'll  pay  you  well  for  saying  it.  But 
if  you  tell  the  truth  and  say  he's  the  decent  fellow  he  is, 
he  '11  land  you  in  the  workhouse !  .  .  . " 

iv 

It  had  not  been  easy  to  interview  the  editor  of  the  Daily 
Sensation.  A  deprecating  commissionaire,  eyeing  him  sus- 
piciously, had  cross-examined  him  in  the  entrance  hall  of 
the  newspaper  office,  and  then  had  compelled  him  to  fill  in  a 
form  with  particulars  of  himself  ...  his  name  and  his 
address  .  .  .  and  of  his  business. 

"I  suppose,"  John  said  sarcastically  to  the  commission- 
aire, ' '  you  don 't  want  me  to  swear  an  affidavit  about  it  ? " 

The  commissionaire  regarded  him  contemptuously,  but 
did  not  reply  to  the  sarcasm. 

After  a  lengthy  wait  and  much  whistling  and  talking 
through  rubber  speaking-tubes,  John  v:as  conducted  to  a 
lift,  given  into  the  charge  of  a  small  boy  in  uniform  who 
treated  him  as  a  nuisance,  and  taken  to  the  office  of  the 
editor.  Here  he  had  to  wait  in  the  society  of  the  editor's 
secretary  for  another  lengthy  period.  He  had  almost  re- 
solved to  come  away  from  the  office  without  seeing  the 
editor,  when  a  bell  rang  and  the  secretary  rising  from  her 
desk,  bade  him  to  follow  her.  He  was  led  into  an  inner 
room  where  he  saw  a  man  seated  at  a  large  desk.  The 
editor  glared  at  him  for  a  moment  or  two  as  if  he  were 
accusing  him  of  an  attempt  to  commit  a  fraud.  Then  he 
said  "Sit  down"  and  began  to  speak  on  the  telephone. 
John  glanced  interestedly  about  him.  There  was  a  portrait 


216  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

of  Napoleon  .  .  .  The  Last  Phase  ...  on  one  wall,  and, 
on  the  wall  opposite  to  it,  a  portrait  of  the  proprietor  of 
the  Daily  Sensation  in  what  might  .fairly  be  described  as 
the  first  phase.  On  the  editor's  desk  was  a  framed  card 
bearing  the  legend :  SAY  IT  QUICK.  .  .  . 

The  telephonic  conversation  ended,  and  Mr.  Clotworthy 
.  .  .  the  editor  .  .  .  put  down  the  receiver  and  turned  to 
John,  frowning  heavily  at  him.  ' '  Well  ? ' '  he  said  so  shortly 
that  the  word  was  almost  unintelligible.  "I  can  give  you 
two  minutes, ' '  he  added,  pulling  out  his  watch  and  placing 
it  on  the  desk. 

"That'll  be  enough,"  John  replied.  "I  want  a  job  on 
this  paper!" 

"Everybody  wants  a  job  on  this  paper.  The  people  who 
are  most  anxious  to  get  on  our  staff  are  the  people  who  are 
never  tired  of  running  us  down !  .  .  . " 

"I  daresay,"  said  John. 

"Ever  done  any  newspaper  work  before?"  the  editor 
demanded. 

"No!" 

' '  Then  what  qualifications  have  you  for  the  work  ?  .  .  . " 

"  I  Ve  written  a  novel !  .  .  . " 

"That's  not  a  qualification!"  Mr.  Clotworthy  ex- 
claimed. 

"But  it's  not  been  published  yet,"  John  replied. 

"Oh,  well!  .  .  .  Anything  else?" 

"I've  written  several  articles  which  have  not  been 
printed,  but  they're  as  good  as  the  stuff  that's  printed  in 
any  paper  in  London. ' ' 

"Quite  so!" 

"And  I  come  from  Ulster  where  all  the  good  men  come 
from, ' '  John  concluded. 

"I've  seen  some  poor  specimens  from  Ulster,"  Mr. 
Clotworthy  said. 

' '  Mebbe  you  have,  but  I  'in  not  one  of  them. ' ' 

The   editor  remained  silent   for   a   few   moments.     He 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  217 

tapped  on  his  desk  with  an  ivory  paper-knife  and  glanced 
quickly  now  and  then  at  John. 

"What  part  of  Ulster  do  you  come  from?"  he  demanded. 

"Ballyards." 

"I've  heard  of  it,"  Mr.  Clotworthy  continued.  "It's 
not  much  of  a  place,  is  it?" 

John  flared  up  angrily.  "It's  better  than  Cookstown 
any  day,"  he  said. 

"Who  told  you  I  came  from  Cookstown?" 

"Never  mind  who  told  me.  If  you  don't  want  to  give 
me  a  job  on  your  paper,  you  needn't.  There's  plenty  of 
other  papers  in  this  town !  .  .  . " 

' '  That  temper  of  yours  '11  get  you  into  serious  bother  one 
of  these  days,  young  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Clotworthy.  "I'm 
willing  to  give  you  work  on  the  paper  if  you  're  fit  to  do  it, 
but  don't  run  away  with  the  notion  that  you've  only  to 
walk  in  here  and  say  you're  an  Ulsterman,  and  you'll  imme- 
diately get  a  position.  What  sort  of  work  do  you  want  to 
do?  You  know  our  paper,  I  suppose?  Well,  how  would 
you  improve  it  ?  " 

John  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  before  he  could  say 
a  word,  the  editor  stopped  him. 

"Don't,"  he  exclaimed,  "say  it  doesn't  need  improve- 
ment. A  lot  of  third-rate  fellows  have  tried  that  tack  with 
me,  as  if  they'd  flatter  me  into  giving  them  a  job.  The 
fools  never  seemed  to  realise  that  when  they  said  the  paper 
didn't  need  improvement  they  were  giving  the  best  reason 
that  could  be  given  why  they  shouldn't  be  employed  on  it. 
If  you  weren't  a  plain-spoken  and  direct  young  fellow  I 
wouldn  't  give  you  that  warning.  Go  on ! " 

"In  my  opinion,"  John  replied,  "what's  wrong  with 
your  paper  is  that  it  doesn't  tell  the  truth.  It  tells  lies  to 
its  readers.  My  idea  is  to  tell  them  the  truth  instead!" 

Mr.  Clotworthy  laughed  at  him.  "You  won't  do  it  on 
this  paper,"  he  said. 

"Why  not?" 


218  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Because  it  can't  be  done.  There's  no  such  thing  as 
truth.  There  never  was,  and  there  never  will  be  such  a 
thing  as  truth.  There's  only  point-of-view !  ..." 

"Well,  I've  got  my  point-of-view,"  John  interrupted. 

"Yes,  but  on  this  paper  we  express  the  point-of-view  of 
the  man  that  owns  it.  That 's  him  there ! "  He  pointed  to 
the  companion  picture  to  the  portrait  of  Napoleon.  "If 
you  imagine  that  we  spend  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
pounds  every  year  to  express  your  point-of-view,  you're 
making  a  big  mistake,  young  fellow  my  lad.  What  you 
want  is  a  soap-box  in  Hyde  Park.  You  can  express  your 
own  point-of-view  there  if  you  can  get  anybody  to  listen  to 
you.  Or  you  can  start  a  paper  of  your  own.  But  this 
paper  is  the  soap-box  of  that  chap,  and  his  is  the  only 
point-of-view  that  '11  be  expressed  in  it.  Do  you  understand 
me?" 

"I  do,"  said  John.  "All  the  same,  I  believe  in  telling 
the  people  the  truth ! ' ' 

The  editor  touched  the  bell  on  his  desk.  "Are  you 
quite  sure,"  said  he,  "that  you  know  what  the  truth  is?" 

' '  Of  course  I  'm  sure. ' '  John  began,  but  before  he  could 
finish  his  sentence,  the  door  of  the  editor 's  room  was  opened 
by  the  lady-secretary. 

' '  Good-morning,  Mr.  MacDermott ! ' '  said  the  editor, 
reaching  for  the  telephone  receiver. 

"But  I  haven't  finished  yet,"  John  protested. 

"I  have."  He  tapped  the  handle  of  the  telephone. 
"You  can  come  and  see  me  again  when  you've  learned 
sense,"  he  added,  after  he  had  given  an  instruction  to  the 
telephone  operator.  ' '  Good  morning ! ' ' 

"Ah,  but  wait  a  minute!  ..." 

"We've  no  use  for  John  the  Baptists  here.  Good  morn- 
ing!" 

"All  the  same!  ..." 

The  editor  impatiently  waved  him  aside. 

"This  way,  please!"  the  lady  secretary  commanded. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  219 

John  glared  at  her,  half  in  the  mood  to  ask  her  what  she 
meant  by  interrupting  him  and  half  in  the  mood  to  tell  her 
that  it  little  became  a  woman  to  intrude  herself  into  the 
conversation  of  men,  but  the  moods  did  not  become  com- 
plete, and,  sulkily  calling  "Good  morning!"  to  Mr.  Clot- 
worthy,  he  left  the  office. 

"One  of  these  days,"  he  said  to  the  lady  secretary  when 
they  were  in  the  outer  office,  "  I  '11  be  your  boss.  And  his, 
too.  And  I  '11  sack  the  pair  of  you  ! ' ' 

"You'll  find  the  lift  at  the  end  of  the  passage,"  she 
replied. 


Hinde  mocked  him  for  his  failure  to  make  the  editor  of 
the  Daily  Sensation  accept  his  view  of  the  universe. 

"That  man  sized  you  up  the  minute  he  clapped  his  eyes 
on  you,"  he  said.  "He's  seen  hundreds  of  young  fellows 
like  you.  We've  all  seen  them.  They  come  down  from 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  with  their  heads  stuffed  with  ideas 
pinched  from  Bernard  Shaw  and  H.  G.  Wells,  and  they  try 
to  stampede  old  Clotworthy.  'By  God,  I'm  a  super- 
man!' is  their  cry,  and  they  say  that  night  and  morning 
and  before  and  after  every  meal  until  even  they  get  sick  of 
listening  to  it.  Then  they  say  '  Oh,  damn ! '  and  go  into 
the  Civil  Service,  and  in  three  years'  time  an  earthquake 
wouldn  't  rouse  them.  All  you  youngsters  want  to  go  about 
telling  the  truth,  especially  when  it's  disagreeable,  but 
there  isn't  one  in  a  million  of  you  is  fit  to  be  let  loose  with 
the  truth,  and  there  isn't  one  in  ten  million  of  men  or 
women  wants  to  be  bothered  by  the  truth.  Lord  alive, 
Mac,  can't  you  young  fellows  leave  us  a  few  decent  lies  to 
comfort  ourselves  with?  ..." 

"You'll  get  no  lies  from  me,"  John  replied. 

"I  can  see  very  well  you're  going  to  be  a  nice  cheerful 
chum  to  have  in  the  house,"  Hinde  said.  "However,  I'll 


220  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

bear  it.  The  Haverstocks'  'At  Home'  is  to-night.  I 
don 't  suppose  you  have  a  dress  suit  ? ' ' 

"No,  I  haven't!" 

"It  doesn't  matter.  Half  the  people  who  go  to  the 
Haverstocks  don 't  wear  evening  dress  on  principle.  That 's 
their  way  of  showing  their  contempt  for  conventionality. 
I  suppose  you'll  come  with  me?"  John  nodded  his  head. 
"Good!  We'll  start  off  immediately  after  we've  had  our 
dinner.  You'll  get  a  good  dose  of  Truth  to-night,  my  son. 
There  was  a  couple  went  there  once  .  .  .  the  rummest 
couple  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  They  thought  they  must  do 
something  for  Progress  and  Advanced  Thought,  so  they 
pretended  they  weren't  married,  but  were  living  in 
sin!  .  .  ." 

"Like  the  two  downstairs?"  said  John. 

"Aye,  only  they  were  legally  married  all  right.  You'll 
observe  in  time,  Mac,  that  the  people  who  make  changes 
are  never  the  advanced  people  who  talk  about  them,  but 
the  ordinary,  conventional  people  who  have  no  theories 
about  things,  but  just  alter  them  when  they  become  incon- 
venient. Butter  wouldn't  melt  in  the  mouth  of  the  man 
who  is  a  devil  of  a  fellow  in  print.  This  couple  went  to 
live  at  a  Garden  City  and  made  an  enormous  impression 
on  the  Nut-eaters;  and  every  Sunday  evening  crowds 
went  to  see  them  living  in  sin.  I  went  myself  one  night :  it 
was  terribly  dull,  and  I  thought  if  that's  the  best  sin  can 
do  for  a  man,  I'm  going  to  join  the  Salvation  Army.  The 
woman  took  off  her  wedding-ring  and  hid  it  in  the  clock, 
and  the  man  made  a  point  of  snorting  every  time  he  passed 
a  parson.  They  had  a  grand  time,  as  I  tell  you,  until  a 
terrible  thing  happened.  A  jealous  nut-eater  .  .  .  and  I 
can  tell  you  there's  nothing  on  earth  so  fearful  and  vin- 
dictive as  a  jealous  vegetarian  .  .  .  discovered  that  these 
two  were  really  married  all  the  time,  and  he  exposed  them 
to  their  admirers.  He  produced  a  copy  of  their  marriage- 
certificate  at  a  public  meeting  which  the  man  was  address- 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  221 

ing  on  the  subject  of  Intolerable  Bonds,  and  the  meeting 
broke  up  in  disorder.  They  had  to  leave  the  Garden  City 
after  that,  and  they're  now  hiding  somewhere  in  the  north 
of  England  and  leading  a  life  of  shameful  matri- 
mony! ..." 

John  giggled.  "Are  there  really  people  like  that?"  he 
asked. 

"Lots  of  them.  You'll  see  some  of  them,  mebbe,  at  the 
Haverstocks  the  night.  I  think  there's  to  be  some  sort  of 
a  discussion,  but  I'm  not  sure.  Mrs.  Haverstock  is  a  great 
woman  for  discussions,  but  I  will  say  this  for  her,  she 
doesn't  humbug  herself  over  them.  She  told  me  once  that 
it  was  better  to  talk  about  adultery  than  to  commit  it !  .  .  . " 

John  blushed  frightfully.  He  felt  the  hot  blood  running 
all  over  his  body.  This  casual  way  of  speaking  of  things 
that  were  only  acknowledged  in  the  Ten  Commandments 
had  a  very  disturbing  effect  upon  him.  He  hoped  that 
Hinde  would  not  observe  his  confusion,  and  he  put  his  hand 
in  front  of  his  eyes  so  that  he  might  conceal  his  red  cheeks. 
If  Hinde  noticed  that  John  was  embarrassed,  he  did  not 
make  any  comment  about  the  matter. 

"And  I  daresay  it  is,"  he  went  on.  "As  long  as  you're 
letting  off  steam,  there's  no  danger  of  the  engine  bursting. 
I've  often  noticed  that  there's  less  misbehaviour  in  places 
where  people  are  always  chattering  as  if  they  had  never 
conducted  themselves  with  decency  in  their  lives  than  there 
is  in  places  where  they  never  say  a  word  about  it.  You'll 
notice  that  too,  when  you've  learned  to  use  your  eyes 
better!  .  ." 


VI 

The  Haverstocks  lived  in  an  old  creeper-covered  and 
slightly  decrepit  house  in  the  Spaniards'  Road.  It  was 
without  a  bathroom  until  the  Haverstocks  took  possession 
of  it,  for  it  had  been  built  in  the  days  when  the  middle- 


222  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

classes  had  not  yet  contracted  the  habit  of  frequently  wash- 
ing their  bodies.  From  the  front  windows  of  the  house 
one  saw  across  Hampstead  Heath  towards  London,  and 
from  the  back  windows  one  saw  across  the  Heath  towards 
Harrow.  The  house,  in  spite  of  its  slight  decrepitude  and 
the  clumsiness  of  its  construction — the  stairs  were  obviously 
an  afterthought  of  the  architect — had  that  air  of  comfort- 
able kindliness  which  is  only  to  be  seen  in  houses  which  have 
been  occupied  by  several  generations  of  human  beings.  Mr. 
Haverstock  was  vaguely  known  as  a  sociologist.  He  investi- 
gated the  affairs  of  poor  people,  and  was  constantly  engaged 
in  inveigling  labourers  into  filling  large  questionnaires  with 
particulars  of  the  wages  they  earned,  the  manner  in  which 
they  spent  those  wages,  the  food  they  ate,  the  number  of 
children  they  procreated,  and  other  intimate  and  personal 
matters.  He  was  anxious  to  discover  exactly  how  much 
proteid  was  necessary  to  the  maintenance  of  a  labouring 
man  in  health  and  efficiency,  and  he  conducted  the  most 
elaborate  experiments  with  beans  and  bananas  for  that  pur- 
pose. It  was  one  of  the  most  discouraging  features  of 
modern  civilisation,  he  often  said,  that  the  spirit  of  research 
and  disinterested  enquiry  was  less  prevalent  among  the 
labouring  classes  than  was  desirable.  He  could  not  induce 
a  labouring  man  to  live  exclusively  on  beans  and  bananas 
for  six  months  in  order  that  he  might  compare  his  physical 
condition  at  the  end  of  that  period  with  his  physical  condi- 
tion after  a  period  spent  in  flesh-eating.  He  told  sad 
stories  of  the  reception  that  had  been  accorded  to  some  of 
his  assistants  at  the  time  that  they  were  obtaining  data  from 
workmen  on  the  question  of  the  limitation  of  the 
family!  .  .  . 

He  was  a  kindly,  solemn  man,  with  large,  astonished  eyes, 
and  he  wore  a  beard,  less  as  a  decoration  than  as  a  protest. 
The  beard  was  really  a  serious  nuisance  to  him,  for  he  had 
dainty  manners  and  he  disliked  to  think  of  soup  dribbling 
down  it;  but  someone  had  convinced  him  that  a  man  who 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  223 

wore  a  beard  early  in  life  was  definitely  bidding  defiance 
to  the  conventions  of  the  time,  and  so  he  sacrificed  his  sense 
of  niceness  to  his  desire  to  epater  les  bourgeois.  He  said 
that  a  beard  was  a  sign  of  Virility!  .  .  .  Mrs.  Haverstock 
and  he  were  childless.  'Mrs.  Haverstock,  a  quick-witted  and 
merry-minded  American,  had  married  her  husband  in  the 
days  when  she  believed  that  a  man  who  wrote  books  of  suffi- 
cient dullness  must  be  a  distinguished  and  desirable  man ; 
and  since  she  brought  a  considerable  fortune  to  England 
with  her,  she  enabled  him  to  write  more  dull  books  than  he 
could  otherwise  have  had  published.  Much  of  her  awe  of 
her  husband  had  disappeared  in  the  course  of  time,  but  it 
had,  fortunately,  been  replaced  by  deep  affection:  for  his 
generosity  and  kindliness  appealed  to  her  increasingly  as 
her  respect  for  his  learning  and  solemnity  declined.  She 
often  said  of  him  that  he  would  do  more  for  his  friends  than 
his  friends  would  do  for  themselves  .  .  .  and  indeed  many 
of  them  were  willing  to  allow  him  to  do  anything  and 
everything  for  them  .  .  .  but  so  long  as  knight-errantry 
with  an  entirely  sociological  intent  made  him  happy,  she 
did  not  mind  how  he  spent  her  money.  He  had  many 
moments  of  dubiety  about  her  fortune  ...  he  frequently 
threatened  to  cross  the  Atlantic  in  order  to  discover  whether 
the  money  was  justly  earned  .  .  .  but  he  invariably  com- 
forted himself  with  the  reflection  that  even  if  the  money 
were  ill-gained,  he  could  at  least  put  it  to  better  use  than 
anyone  else ;  and  so  he  refrained  from  crossing  the  Atlantic, 
not  without  a  sensation  of  relief,  for  he  was  an  unhappy 
sailor. 

He  loved  discussions  and  arguments  about  Deep  Things, 
and  Mrs.  Haverstock  had  invented  her  series  of  At  Homes 
in  order  that  her  husband  might  get  rid  of  some  of  his  noble 
principles  at  them.  She  felt  that  if  he  could  dissipate  part 
of  them  in  argument  with  other  very  high-minded  men, 
life,  between  the  At  Homes,  would  be  a  little  more  human 
and  livable  for  her.  She  secured  a  regular  supply  of  at- 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

tendants  at  these  discussions  by  the  simple  method  of  sup- 
plying an  excellent  supper  to  those  who  came  to  them. 

"I  first  met  Haverstock,"  Hinde  said  to  John  as  they 
walked  along  the  Spaniards'  Road,  "during  a  strike  at 
Canning  Town.  He  was  trying  to  persuade  the  police  to 
remember  that  the  strikers  were  men  and  brothers,  and  he 
was  trying  also  to  persuade  the  strikers  that  force  was  no 
argument  and  that  they  ought  to  use  constitutional  means 
of  settling  their  disputes  with  their  employers.  And  be- 
tween the  two,  he  was  in  danger  of  getting  his  eye  knocked 
out,  until  I  hauled  him  out  of  the  crowd  and  shoved  him 
into  a  cab  and  took  him  home.  Mrs.  Haverstock  was  so 
grateful  to  me  that  she 's  invited  me  to  her  house  ever  since 
.  .  .  but  the  people  I  meet  there  make  me  feel  murderous. 
I  like  her,  a  sensible,  sonsy  woman,  and  I  like  him  too,  al- 
though his  solemn,  priggish  airs  make  me  tired,  but  I  cannot 
bear  the  crowd  they  get  round  them:  all  the  cranks  and 
oddities  and  smug,  self-sufficient,  interfering  people  seem 
to  get  into  their  house,  and  they  're  all  reforming  something 
or  uplifting  something  else  or  generally  bleating  against 
this  country.  Things  done  in  England  are  always  inferior 
to  things  done  elsewhere.  English  cooking  is  inferior  to 
French  cooking :  English  organisation  is  inferior  to  German 
organisation.  Whatever  is  done  in  England  is  wrongly 
done.  The  English  are  hypocrites,  the  English  are  sordid 
and  materialistic,  the  English  are  everlastingly  compromis- 
ing, the  English  are  this,  that  and  the  other  that  is  un- 
pleasant and  objectionable!  ...  I  tell  you,  Mac,  there's 
nobody  makes  me  feel  so  sick  as  the  Englishman  who  be- 
littles England!" 

"Well,  we  make  little  of  the  English,  don't  we?"  John 
protested. 

' '  I  know  we  do,  and  perhaps  it  is  natural  that  we  should, 
but  it 's  a  poor,  cheap  thing  at  the  best,  and  does  very  little 
credit  to  our  intelligence.  The  English  ideal  of  life  is  as 
good  an  ideal  as  there  is  in  the  world.  I  think  it  is  far  the 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  «25 

finest  ideal  there  is,  chiefly  because  it  does  not  make  im- 
possible demands  on  human  beings.  When  everything  that 
can  be  alleged  against  the  English  is  alleged  and  admitted, 
it  remains  true  that  they  love  freedom  far  more  constantly 
than  other  people,  and  that  without  them,  freedom  would 
have  a  very  thin  time  in  the  world.  You  ask  any  liberty- 
loving  American  which  country  has  more  freedom,  his 
country  or  this  country,  and  he'll  tell  you  very  quickly, 
England!  Englishmen  don't  argue  about  freedom:  they 
just  are  free,  and  on  the  whole,  they  carry  freedom  with 
them.  An  American  will  argue  about  liberty  even  while 
he  is  clapping  you  into  gaol  for  asserting  your  right  to 
freedom !  .  .  .  Here 's  the  house ! ' ' 

They  turned  into  the  front  garden  of  the  Haverstocks' 
house  as  he  spoke. 

"In  a  way,"  he  said,  as  they  walked  along  the  gravel 
path  leading  to  the  door,  "the  English  Radical  is  the 
strongest  testimony  to  the  English  ideal  of  freedom  that 
you  could  have.  He  is  so  jealous  of  his  country's  good 
name  that  he  is  always  ready  to  shout  out  if  he  is  not 
satisfied  with  her  behaviour.  That's  a  good  sign,  really! 
Only  they  're  so  smug  about  it !  .  .  . " 

Most  of  the  guests  were  already  assembled  when  they 
entered  the  drawing-room  where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Haverstock 
bade  them  welcome.  Hinde  introduced  John  to  them,  men- 
tioning that  he  had  only  lately  arrived  from  Ireland.  Mrs. 
Haverstock  smiled  and  hoped  he  would  often  come  to  see 
them,  and  Mr.  Haverstock  looked  pontifical  and  said,  "Ah, 
yes.  Poor  Ireland !  Poor  Ireland !  Tragic !  Tragic ! ' ' 
He  waved  his  hand  in  a  vague  fashion,  and  then  turned  to 
greet  the  representative  of  another  distressed  nation. 
John  could  hear  him  murmuring,  "Ah,  yes.  Poor  Georgia! 
Poor  Georgia!  Tragic!  Tragic!"  but  was  unable  to  hear 
any  more  because  Mrs.  Haverstock  led  him  up  to  a  lean, 
staring  youth  with  goggle  eyes  who,  she  said,  had  promised 
to  read  several  of  his  poems  to  the  guests  and  to  open  a 


226  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

discussion  on  Marriage.  The  goggle-eyed  poet  informed 
John  that  Homer,  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Shelley  and 
Browning  were  comic  old  gentlemen  who  entirely  misunder- 
stood the  nature  and  function  of  poetry.  He  had  founded 
a  new  school  of  poetry.  It  appeared  from  his  account  of 
this  school  that  the  important  thing  was  not  what  was  said 
in  a  poem,  but  what  was  left  out  of  it.  He  illustrated  his 
meaning  by  allowing  John  to  read  the  manuscript  of  one 
of  the  poems  he  proposed  to  read  that  evening.  It  was 
entitled  "Life,"  and  it  contained  two  lines!  .  .  . 

LIFE 

Big,  black  crows  on  bare,  black  branches, 
Cawing!   .  .  . 

' '  Where 's  the  rest  of  it  ? "  said  John  innocently. 

The  poet  looked  at  him  with  such  contempt  that  he  felt 
certain  he  had  committed  an  indiscretion.  "Is  that  the 
whole  of  it?"  he  hurriedly  asked. 

' '  That  fact  that  you  ask  such  a  question, ' '  said  the  poet, 
"shows  that  you  have  no  knowledge  of  the  completeness  of 
life!  .  .  ." 

"Well,  I  only  came  here  about  a  fortnight  ago,"  John 
humbly  replied  .  .  .  but  the  poet  had  moved  away  and 
would  not  listen  to  him  any  longer.  "I  seem  to  have  put 
my  foot  in  it,"  John  murmured  to  himself. 

He  made  his  way  to  Hinde's  side,  resolved  that  he  would 
not  budge  from  it  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  The  people 
present  frightened  him,  particularly  after  his  experience 
with  the  poet,  and  he  determined  that  he  would  keep  him- 
self as  inconspicuous  as  possible.  He  felt  that  all  these 
people  were  terribly  clever  and  that  his  ignorance  would 
be  immediately  apparent  if  he  opened  his  mouth  in  their 
presence.  He  tried  hard  to  realise  the  magnitude  of 
"Life,"  but  he  could  not  convince  himself  that  it  was 
either  an  adequate  description  of  existence  or  that  it  was  a 
description  of  anything;  and,  in  his  innocence,  he  believed 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  227 

that  he  was  mentally  deficient.  Hinde  named  some  of  the 
guests  to  him.  This  one  was  a  novelist  and  that  one  had 
written  a  play  .  .  .  and  in  the  excitement  of  seeing  and 
listening  to  men  who  had  actually  done  things  that  he 
wished  to  do,  John  forgot  some  of  his  humiliation. 

' '  I  saw  you  talking  to  Palfrey, ' '  Hinde  said  to  him. 

"The  poet  chap?"  John  replied. 

Hinde  nodded  his  head.  "What  did  you  think  of  him?" 
he  continued. 

"He  showed  me  one  of  his  poems.  I  couldn't  understand 
it,  and  when  I  said  so,  he  walked  away!" 

Hinde  laughed.  "That's  as  good  a  description  of  him 
as  you  could  invent,"  he  said.  "He  always  walks  away 
when  you  can't  understand  what  he's  getting  at.  The 
reason  why  he  does  that  is  he's  afraid  someone '11  discover 
he  isn't  getting  at  anything.  He's  just  an  impertinent 
person.  He  thinks  he's  being  great  when  he's  only  being 
cheeky!" 

John  repeated  the  poem  entitled  "Life"  to  Hinde. 
"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  think  anything  of  it,"  Hinde  replied. 

John  felt  reassured.  "I  asked  him  where  the  rest  of  it 
was,  and  he  nearly  ate  the  face  off  me,"  he  said.  "I  was 
afraid  he'd  think  me  a  terrible  gumph!  ..." 

"If  you  let  a  humbug  like  that  impose  upon  you,  Mac, 
I'll  never  own  you  for  my  friend.  Any  intelligent  office- 
boy  could  write  poems  like  that  all  day  long ! ' ' 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  room,  and  the  guests  began 
to  settle  in  their  seats  or  on  the  floor,  and  after  a  short 
while,  Mr.  Haverstock,  who  acted  as  chairman  of  the  meet- 
ing, took  his  place  in  front  of  a  small  table,  and  Mr.  Palfrey 
sat  down  beside  him.  The  poet,  said  the  chairman,  would 
honour  them  by  reading  some  new  poems  to  them,  after 
which  he  would  open  a  discussion  on  Marriage.  They  all 
knew  that  Marriage  was  an  important  matter,  affecting  the 
lives  of  men  and  women  to  a  far  greater  extent,  probably, 


228  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

than  anything  else  in  the  world,  and  it  was  desirable  there- 
fore that  they  should  discuss  it  frankly  and  frequently. 
Problems  would  remain  insoluble  so  long  as  people  remained 
silent  about  them.  He  could  not  help  expressing  his  re- 
gret to  those  present  at  the  extraordinary  reluctance  which 
the  average  person  had  to  revealing  experiences  of  matri- 
mony. He  had  initiated  an  important  enquiry  into  the 
question  of  marital  relationships  with  a  view  to  discovering 
exactly  what  it  was  that  caused  so  many  marriages  to  fail, 
and  he  had  had  to  abandon  the  enquiry  because  very  few 
people  were  willing  to  tell  anything  about  their  marriages 
to  him.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  foolish  reticence  in  the 
world  ...  at  this  point  Mr.  Palfrey  emphatically  said, 
"Hear!  Hear!"  .  .  .  and  he  trusted  that  those  present 
that  evening  would  cast  away  false  modesty  and  would  say 
quite  openly  what  their  experiences  had  been.  He  would 
not  detain  them  any  longer  ...  he  was  quite  certain  that 
they  were  all  very  anxious  to  hear  Mr.  Palfrey  .  .  .  and  so 
without  any  more  ado  he  would  call  upon  him  to  read  his 
poems  and  then  to  discuss  the  great  and  important  question 
of  Marriage. 

vii 

Mr.  Palfrey  read  his  poems  in  a  curious  sing-song  fashion, 
beating  time  with  his  right  hand  as  he  did  so.  He  seemed 
to  be  performing  physical  exercises  rather  than  modulating 
his  own  accents,  and  on  two  occasions  his  gesture  was 
longer  than  his  poem.  He  read  "Life"  very  slowly  and 
very  deliberately,  saying  the  word  "cawing"  in  a  high- 
pitched  tone,  and  prolonging  it  until  his  breath  was  ex- 
hausted. He  recited  a  dozen  of  these  poems,  obtaining  his 
greatest  effect  with  the  last  of  them,  which  was  entitled, 
"The  Sea": 

Immense,  incalculable  waste, 

The  dribblings  from  a  giant's  beard.  .  .  . 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  229 

"Isn't  it  wonderful?"  said  an  ecstatic  girl  sitting  next 
to  John. 

"No, "he  replied. 

She  looked  at  him  interrogatively,  and  he  added,  very 
aggressively,  ' '  I  think  it 's  twaddle  ! ' ' 

"Oh,  do  you?"  she  exclaimed  as  if  she  could  scarcely 
believe  her  ears. 

"I  do,  "said  John. 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  that  Mr.  Haverstock  was 
on  his  feet  proposing  that  they  should  now  have  supper 
and  take  the  more  important  business  of  the  evening  after- 
wards, namely,  the  discussion  of  this  great  problem  of  Mar- 
riage. They  had  all  been  deeply  moved  by  Mr.  Palfrey's 
beautiful  verses  and  would  no  doubt  like  an  opportunity 
of  discussing  them  in  an  informal  manner.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Haverstock  led  John  to  a  girl  who  was  sitting  at  the 
back  of  the  room,  and  introduced  him  to  her.  Miss  Bushe 
was  the  daughter  of  the  editor  of  the  Daily  Groan,  and 
Mrs.  Haverstock  desired  that  John  would  take  her  into 
supper. 

' '  Mr.  MacDermott  is  Irish — he  has  only  just  arrived  from 
Ireland,"  Mrs.  Haverstock  said  to  Miss  Bushe  by  way  of 
explanation  or  possibly  as  a  means  of  providing  them  with 
conversation. 

"I've  always  wanted  to  go  to  Ireland,"  said  Miss  Bushe, 
taking  his  arm  and  allowing  him  to  lead  her  to  the  dining- 
room. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  go?"  he  asked. 

All  evening  people  had  been  telling  him  that  they  had 
always  wanted  to  go  to  Ireland,  but  had  somehow  omitted 
to  do  so. 

"Well,  mother  likes  Bournemouth,"  Miss  Bushe  replied, 
"and  so  we  always  go  there.  She  says  that  she  knows 
there'll  be  a  bathroom  at  Bournemouth,  and  plenty  of  hot 
water  and  she  can 't  bear  the  thought  of  going  to  some  place 


230  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

where  hot  water  isn't  laid  on.     I  suppose  I  shall  go  to 
Ireland  some  day ! ' ' 

"There's  plenty  of  hot  water  in  Ireland,"  said  John. 

Miss  Bushe  giggled.     "You're  so  satirical,"  she  said. 

"Satirical?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes.     About  the  hot  water  in  Ireland!" 

He  gazed  blankly  at  her.  "I  don't  understand  you," 
he  replied.  "I  meant  just  what  I  said.  You  can  get  hot 
water  in  Ireland  as  easily  as  you  can  in  England.  Some 
people  have  it  laid  on  in  pipes,  and  other  people  have  to 
boil  it-  on  the  fire ;  but  you  can  get  it  all  right ! ' ' 

There  was  a  look  of  disappointment  on  Miss  Bushe 's  face. 
"I  thought  you  were  making  a  reference  to  politics,"  she 
said. 

John  stared  at  her.  Then  he  turned  away.  "Will  I  get 
you  something  to  eat?"  he  murmured  as  he  did  so.  He  had 
observed  the  other  men  gallantly  waiting  upon  the  ladies. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  she  said.  She  glanced  towards  the 
table.  "I  wonder  if  that  trifle  has  got  anything  intoxicat- 
ing in  it  ? "  she  added. 

"I  daresay,"  he  answered.  "Trifles  usually  have  drink 
of  some  sort  in  them ! ' ' 

"I  couldn't  take  it  if  it  has  anything  intoxicating  in  it," 
she  burbled. 

* '  Why  not  ? "  John  demanded.     ' '  It  '11  do  you  no  harm ! ' ' 

"Oh,  I  couldn't.  I  simply  couldn't  if  it  has  anything 
intoxicating  in  it.  We're  very  strict  about  intoxicants. 
They  do  so  much  harm ! ' ' 

John  did  not  know  what  to  do  or  say  next.  She  still 
stared  longingly  at  the  trifle,  and  it  was  clear  that  she 
would  greatly  like  to  eat  some  of  it. 

' '  Well  ? "  he  said  vaguely. 

' '  I  wonder, ' '  she  replied,  ' '  whether  you  'd  mind  tasting  it 
first,  just  to  see  whether  it  has  anything  intoxicating  in  it  ? " 

John  thought  that  this  was  a  strange  sort  of  young 
woman  to  take  into  supper,  but  he  did  as  she  bid  him.  He 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  231 

took  a  large  portion  of  the  trifle  on  to  a  plate  and  tasted  it. 
She  gazed  at  him  in  a  very  anxious  manner. 

' '  It  has, ' '  he  said,  ' '  and  it 's  lovely  ! ' ' 

The  light  went  out  of  her  eyes.  ' '  Then  I  think  I  '11  just 
have  some  blanc-mange, "  she  said. 

"There's  nothing  intoxicating  in  that,"  he  replied,  going 
to  get  it  for  her. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  murmured  when  he  had  returned 
and  she  was  eating  the  blanc-mange,  "I  almost  wish  you 
had  said  there  was  nothing  intoxicating  in  the  trifle!  ..." 

"That  would  have  been  a  lie,"  John  interrupted. 

"Yes,  but!  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  this  blanc-mange  is  quite 
nice!" 

John  tempted  her.     ' '  Taste  the  trifle  anyway, ' '  he  said. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  shrinking  back.  "I  couldn't. 
We  're  very  strict !  .  .  . " 

viii 

After  supper,  Mr.  Palfrey  opened  the  discussion  on  Mar- 
riage. He  declared  that  Marriage  was  the  coward's  refuge 
from  Love.  He  said  that  Marriage  had  been  invented  by 
lawyers  and  parsons  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  fees  and 
authority.  These  unpleasant  people,  the  lawyers  and  the 
parsons,  had  contrived  to  make  Love  an  impropriety  and 
had  reduced  Holy  Passion  to  the  status  of  a  schedule  to  an 
act  of  parliament.  Cupid  had  been  furnished  with  a 
truncheon  and  a  helmet  and  had  been  robbed  of  his  wings 
in  order  that  he  might  more  suitably  serve  as  a  policeman. 
He  demanded  Free  Love,  and  pleaded  for  the  chaste  pro- 
miscuity of  the  birds!  .  .  .  After  he  had  said  a  great 
deal  in  the  same  strain,  he  sat  down  amid  applause,  and  Mr. 
Haverstock  invited  discussion.  He  would  like  to  say,  how- 
ever, that  he  strongly  believed  in  regulation.  In  his  opinion 
there  was  something  beautiful  in  the  sight  of  a  bride  and  a 
bridegroom  signing  the  parish  register  in  the  presence  of 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

their  friends.  The  young  couple,  he  said,  asked  for  the 
approval  and  sanction  of  the  community  in  their  love- 
making.  Love  without  Law  was  License,  and  he  trusted 
that  Mr.  Palfrey  was  not  inviting  them  to  approve  of 
Licentiousness.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Palfrey  created  an  enormous  sensation  and  some 
laughter  by  saying  that  that  was  precisely  what  he  did  in- 
vite them  to  do.  All  law  was  composed  of  hindrances  and 
obstacles  and  forbiddings,  and  therefore  he  was  entirely 
opposed  to  Law.  This  statement  so  nonplussed  Mr.  Haver- 
stock  that  he  abruptly  sat  down,  and  for  a  few  moments  the 
meeting  was  in  a  state  of  chaotic  silence.  Then  a  large 
man  rose  from  the  floor  where  he  had  been  lying  almost  at 
full  length  and  announced  that  in  his  opinion  the  world 
would  cease  to  have  any  love  in  it  at  all  if  the  present  craze 
for  vegetable  diet  increased  to  any  great  extent.  How 
could  a  bean-f easter,  he  demanded,  feel  passion  in  his  blood  ? 
Meat,  he  declared,  excited  the  amorous  instincts.  All  the 
great  lovers  of  the  world  were  extravagantly  carnivorous, 
and  all  poetry,  in  the  last  resort,  rested  on  a  foundation  of 
beef-steak  puddings.  What  sort  of  lover  would  Romeo 
have  been  had  he  lived  on  a  diet  of  lentils  ?  Would  Juliet 
have  had  the  power  to  move  the  sympathies  of  generations 
of  men  and  women  if  she  had  nourished  her  love  on  haricot 
beans?  .  .  . 

Immediately  he  sat  down,  a  lean  and  bearded  youth 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  announced  in  vibrant  tones  that  he 
had  been  a  practising  vegetarian  from  birth  and  could 
affirm  from  personal  experience  that  a  vegetable  diet,  so  far 
from  suppressing  the  passions,  actually  stimulated  them; 
and  he  offe-red  to  prove  from  statistics  that  vegetarians,  in 
proportion  to  their  number,  had  been  more  frequently  en- 
gaged in  romantic  philandering  than  carnivorous  persons 
had.  Look  at  Shelley !  ...  He  could  assure  those  present 
that  he  was  as  amorous  and  passionate  as  any  meat-eater  in 
the  room.  . 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  233 

The  discussion  went  to  pieces  after  that,  and  became  a 
wrangle  about  proteid  and  food  values.  There  was  an 
elderly  lady  who  insisted  on  telling  John  all  about  the 
gastric  juices!  .  .  .  Hinde  rescued  him  on  the  plea  that 
they  had  a  long  journey  in  front  of  them,  and  very  grate- 
fully John  accepted  the  suggestion  that  they  should  set  off 
at  once  in  order  to  reach  their  lodgings  at  a  reasonable  hour. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Haverstock  conducted  them  to  the  door  .  .  . 
a  chilly  and  contemptuous  nod  had  been  accorded  to  John 
by  Mr.  Palfrey  .  .  .  and  pressed  them  to  come  again  soon. 
"Every  Wednesday  evening,"  said  Mr.  Haverstock,  "we're 
at  home,  and  we  discuss  .  .  .  everything!  ..." 

They  hurried  along  the  Spaniards'  Road  towards  the 
Tube  Station,  and  as  they  did  so,  John  told  Hinde  of  his 
encounter  with  Miss  Bushe  over  the  trifle. 

"That  accounts  for  it,"  Hinde  exclaimed  aloud. 

"Accounts  for  what?"  John  demanded. 

"The  Daily  Groan.  I've  often  wondered  what  was  the 
matter  with  that  paper,  and  now  I  know.  They're  always 
wondering  whether  there's  anything  intoxicating  in  the 
trifle!  ...  I  don't  mind  a  boy  talking  in  that  wild  way. 
A  clever,  intelligent  lad  ought  to  talk  revolutionary  stuff, 
but  when  a  man  reaches  Palfrey's  age  and  is  still  gabbling 
that  silly-cleverness,  then  the  man's  an  ass.  There's  no 
depth  in  him !  .  .  . " 

ix 

They  sat  in  the  sitting-room  for  a  long  while  after  they 
had  returned  to  Brixton,  and  Hinde  related  some  of  his 
reminiscences  to  John. 

"I'm  one  of  the  world's  failures,"  he  said.  "I  came  to 
London  to  try  and  do  great  work,  and  I'm  still  a  journalist. 
I  can  recognise  a  fine  book  when  I  see  it,  but  I  can't  create 
one.  I'm  just  a  journalist,  and  a  journalist  isn't  really  a 
man.  He  has  no  life  of  his  own  ...  he  goes  home  on 
sufferance,  and  may  be  called  up  by  his  editor  at  any 


234  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

minute  to  go  galloping  off  in  search  of  a  'story.'  We  go 
everywhere  and  see  nothing.  We  meet  everybody  and  know 
nobody.  A  journalist  is  a  man  without  beliefs  and  almost 
without  hope.  The  damned  go  to  Fleet  Street  when  they 
die;  It's  an  exciting  life  ...  oh,  yes,  quite  exciting,  but 
it's  horrible  to  see  men  merely  as  'copy'  and  to  think  of 
the  little  secret,  intimate  things  of  life  only  as  materials 
for  a  good  '  story. '  I  wish  I  were  a  grocer !  .  .  . " 

"Why?"  John  demanded. 

"Well,  at  least  a  grocer  does  not  look  upon  human  beings 
merely  as  consumers  of  sugar ! ' ' 

"I  could  have  been  a  grocer  if  I'd  wanted  to,"  John 
continued.  "My  mother  wanted  me  to  be  a  clergyman!" 

"What  put  it  into  your  head  to  turn  scribbler?" 

"I  just  wanted  to  write  a  book.  I  can't  make  you  out, 
Hinde.  One  minute  you're  advising  me  to  go  on  a  paper, 
and  the  next  minute  you're  telling  me  a  journalist  isn't  a 
man! ..." 

"When  you  know  more  of  us,"  Hinde  interrupted, 
"you'll  know  that  all  journalists  belittle  journalism.  It's 
the  one  consolation  that's  left  to  them.  Unless  you're  pre- 
pared to  associate  only  with  journalists,  Mac,  you'd  much 
better  keep  out  of  Fleet  Street.  Newspaper  men  always 
feel  like  fish  out  of  water  when  they're  in  the  company  of 
other  men.  They  must  be  near  the  newspaper  atmosphere 
.  .  .  they  can't  breathe  without  the  stink  of  ink  in  their 
nostrils!  ..." 

"All  the  same  I'll  have  a  try  at  the  life,"  said  John. 


But  at  the  end  of  his  first  month  in  London,  John  had 
no  more  to  his  account  than  this,  that  he  had  begun  but 
had  not  completed  a  music-hall  sketch,  that  he  had  begun 
but  had  not  made  much  progress  with  a  tragedy,  that  he 
had  tried  to  obtain  employment  on  the  staff  of  the  Daily 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  235 

Sensation  and  had  failed  to  do  so,  and,  worst  of  all,  that  he 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Eleanor  Moore  but  could  not  find 
her  anywhere.  His  novel  supplied  the  one  element  of  hope 
that  lightened  his  thoughts  on  his  month's  work.  He 
wished  now  that  he  had  asked  Hinde  to  read  it  before  it 
had  been  sent  to  the  publisher.  Perhaps  it  would  redeem 
the  month  from  its  dismal  state. 


THE  FOURTH  CHAPTER 


IT  was  Hinde  who  brought  the  good  news  to  John.  Mr. 
Clotworthy,  the  editor  of  the  Daily  Sensation,  had  met 
Hinde  in  Tudor  Street  that  afternoon  and  when  he  had 
heard  that  John  and  Hinde  were  living  together,  he  said, 
''Tell  him  I'll  take  him  on  the  staff  if  he'll  promise  to  keep 
the  Truth  well  under  control!"  and  had  named  the  fol- 
lowing morning  for  an  appointment. 

"It's  a  queer  thing,"  said  Hinde  as  he  related  the  news 
to  John,  "that  I'm  advising  you  to  take  the  job  when  I  was 
telling  you  the  other  night  that  journalism's  no  work  for  a 
man;  but  that  only  shows  what  a  journalist  I  am.  No 
stability  .  .  .  carried  off  my  feet  by  any  excitement. 
And  mebbe  the  life '11  disgust  you  and  you'll  go  home 
again!  ..." 

' '  With  my  tail  between  my  legs  ? ' '  John  demanded.  ' '  No, 
I'll  not  do  that.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  go  home  and  admit  I 
hadn't  done  what  I  set  out  to  do.  What  time  does  Mr. 
Clotworthy  want  me  ? " 

Hinde  told  him. 

"I'll  write  to  my  mother  at  once,"  said  John,  "and  tell 
her  he's  sent  for  me.  That'll  impress  her.  She'll  be 
greatly  taken  with  the  notion  that  he  sent  for  me  instead 
of  me  running  after  him !  .  .  . " 

"The  great  fault  in  an  Ulsterman,"  said  Hinde,  "is  his 
silly  pride  that  won't  let  him  acknowledge  his  mistake 
when  he's  made  one.  You'll  get  into  a  lot  of  bother,  John 
MacDermott,  if  you  go  about  the  world  letting  on  you've 

236 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  237 

done  right  when  you  've  done  wrong,  and  pretending  a  mis- 
take is  not  a  mistake ! ' ' 

"I'll  run  the  risk  of  that,"  John  replied. 

ii 

Mr.  Clotworthy  spoke  very  sharply  to  him.  "You  under- 
stand,"  he  said,  "that  you're  here  to  write  what  we  want 
you  to  write,  and  not  to  write  what  you  think.  If  you 
start  any  of  your  capering  about  Truth  and  Reforming  the 
world,  I'll  fire  you  into  the  street  the  minute  I  catch  you 
at  it.  You're  here  to  interest  people.  That's  all.  You're 
not  here  to  elevate  their  minds  or  teach  them  anything. 
You're  here  to  keep  up  our  sales  and  increase  them  if  you 
can.  D  'you  understand  me  ? " 

"I  do,  "said  John. 

"Well?" 

"I'll  try  the  job  for  a  while  and  see  how  I  like  it!" 

Mr.  Clotworthy  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  rubbed  his 
glasses  with  his  handkerchief.  ' '  You  've  a  great  nerve, ' '  he 
said,  smiling.  "I  don't  know  whether  you  talk  like  that 
because  you're  sure  of  yourself  or  just  stupid !" 

"I  always  knew  my  own  mind,"  John  replied. 

Mr.  Clotworthy  turned  him  over  to  Mr.  Tarleton,  the 
news-editor,  who  was  instructed  to  give  him  hints  on  his 
work  and  introduce  him  to  other  members  of  the  staff. 

For  two  days  John  did  very  little  in  the  office,  beyond 
finding  his  way  about,  but  on  the  third  day  of  his  employ- 
ment, Tarleton  suddenly  called  him  into  his  room  and  told 
him  that  the  musical  critic  had  telephoned  to  say  he  was 
unwell  and  would  not  be  able  to  attend  a  concert  at  the 
Albert  Hall  that  evening. 

"You'll  have  to  go  instead,"  said  Tarleton. 

"But  I  don't  know  anything  about  music,"  John  pro- 
tested. 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 


238  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Well,  I  thought  one  was  supposed  to  know  something 
about  music  before  you  wrote  a  criticism  of  it ! " 

"Look  here,  young  fellow,"  said  Tarleton.  "Let  me 
give  you  a  piece  of  advice.  Never  admit  that  there's  any- 
thing in  this  world  that  you  don't  know.  A  Daily  Sensa- 
tion man  knows  everything!  ..." 

"But  I  have  no  ear  for  music.  I  hardly  know  a  minim 
from  a  semi-quaver !  .  .  . " 

"Well,  that  doesn't  matter.  Get  a  programme.  Mark 
on  it  the  songs  and  pieces  that  get  the  most  applause. 
Those  are  the  best  things.  See?  Anybody  can  criticise 
music  when  he  knows  a  tip  or  two  like  that.  If  the  singer 
is  a  celebrated  person,  like  Melba  or  Tetrazzini,  you  say 
she  was  in  her  usual  brilliant  form.  If  the  singer  isn't 
celebrated,  just  say  that  she  shows  promise  of  develop- 
ment! .  .  ." 

"But  supposing  I  don't  like  her?" 

' '  Then  say  nothing  about  her.  If  we  can 't  praise  people 
on  this  paper,  we  ignore  them.  Get  your  stuff  in  before 
eleven,  will  you?  Here's  the  ticket!" 

Tarleton  thrust  the  card  into  John's  hand  and,  a  little 
dazed  and  a  little  excited,  John  went  out  of  the  room. 
This  was  his  first  important  job.  Words  that  he  had 
written  would  appear  in  print  in  the  morning,  and  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  people  would  read  them.  The  Daily 
Sensation  had  an  enormous  circulation  ...  a  million  peo- 
ple bought  it  every  morning,  so  Tarleton  said,  and  that 
meant,  he  explained,  that  about  three  or  four  million  people 
read  it.  Each  copy  of  a  paper  was  probably  seen  by  several 
persons.  The  thought  that  some  judgment  of  his  would 
be  read  by  a  million  men  and  women  in  the  morning 
caused  John  to  feel  tremendously  responsible.  He  must  be 
careful  to  give  his  praise  judiciously.  All  of  the  persons 
present  at  the  concert  that  night,  but  more  especially  the 
singers  and  instrumentalists,  would  turn  first  of  all  to  his 
notice.  There  might  be  a  great  political  crisis  or  a  sensa- 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  239 

tional  murder  reported  in  the  morning's  news,  but  these 
people  would  turn  first  to  his  notice  to  see  what  he  had  said 
about  the  music.  And  it  would  not  do  to  let  them  have  a 
wrong  impression  about  the  concert.  Tarleton  had  told 
him  not  to  dispraise  anything  .  .  .  "it'll  be  cut  out  if  you 
do"  .  .  .  but  at  all  events  he  would  take  care  that  his 
praise  was  justly  given.  He  would  send  copies  of  the 
papers,  marked  with  blue  pencil,  to  his  mother  and  Mr. 
McCaughan  and  Mr.  Cairnduff.  He  could  imagine  the  talk 
there  would  be  in  Ballyards  about  his  criticism  of  the 
concert.  The  minister  and  the  schoolmaster  would  be 
greatly  impressed  when  they  realised  that  the  paper  with 
the  largest  circulation  in  the  world  had  asked  him  to  say 
what  he  thought  of  Madame  Tetrazzini.  Mr.  McCaughan 
had  never  heard  anything  greater  than  a  cantata  sung  by 
the  church  choir  in  the  church  room,  and  he  had  been  deeply 
impressed  by  the  statements  made  about  it  by  a  reporter 
from  the  North  Down  Herald  who  declared  that  the  render- 
ing of  the  sacred  work  reflected  great  credit  on  all  con- 
cerned in  it,  but  particularly  on  the  Reverend  Mr.  Mc- 
Caughan to  whose  sterling  instruction  in  the  principles  of 
true  religion,  the  young  people  engaged  in  singing  the 
cantata  clearly  owed  the  sincerity  and  fervour  with  which 
they  sang  their  parts.  If  he  were  so  greatly  impressed  by 
a  report  in  the  North  Down  Herald,  would  he  not  be  over- 
whelmed by  the  fact  that  one  of  his  congregation  had  been 
chosen  to  pronounce  judgment  on  the  greatest  singer  in 
the  world  in  the  greatest  newspaper  in  the  world  .  ,  .  for 
John  was  now  satisfied  that  the  Daily  Sensation  was  enor- 
mously more  important  than  any  other  paper  that  was 
published. 

He  went  to  a  tea-shop  in  Fleet  Street  where  he  knew  he 
could  hope  to  meet  Hinde,  and  found  him  sitting  in  a  corner 
with  a  friend  who,  soon  after  John's  arrival,  went  away. 

"You  needn't  go  to  the  concert  if  you're  not  desperately 


240  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

keen  on  it,"  Hinde  said  when  John  had  told  him  of  his 
job.  "You  can  write  your  notice  now!  ..." 

' '  Write  it  now !  .  .  .  But  I  haven 't  been  to  the  concert ! ' ' 

' '  I  wouldn  't  give  much  for  the  man  who  couldn  't  write  a 
criticism  of  a  concert  without  going  to  it,"  Hinde  con- 
temptuously replied.  "Say  that  Tetrazzini's  wonderful 
voice  enthralled  the  audience  and  that  there  were  scenes  of 
unparalleled  enthusiasm  as  the  diva  graciously  responded 
to  the  clamorous  demands  for  encores.  Add  a  few  words 
about  the  man  who  played  her  accompaniments  and  the 
number  of  floral  tributes  she  received,  and  there  you  are. 
That 's  all  that 's  necessary ! ' ' 

' '  I  couldn 't  do  it, ' '  said  John.     ' '  It  wouldn 't  be  honest ! ' ' 

"Don't  be  a  prig,"  Hinde  exclaimed. 

' '  Prig !     Is  it  being  a  prig  to  do  your  work  fairly  ? ' ' 

"No,  but  it's  being  a  prig  to  treat  a  thing  as  important 
that  isn't  important  at  all.  I  wanted  you  to  come  to  a 
music-hall  with  me  to-night ! ' ' 

"I'm  sorry,"  John  replied  stiffly.  "I'd  like  to  go  with 
you,  but  I  couldn't  think  of  doing  such  a  thing  as  you 
suggest  to  me ! " 

"I  wonder  how  long  you'll  feel  like  that,  Mac?"  Hinde 
laughed. 

"All  my  life,  I  hope!" 

"Well,  have  it  your  own  way,  then.  But  you're  wasting 
your  time ! ' ' 

"And  another  thing, ' '  John  continued.  ' ' I  want  to  hear 
the  woman  singing.  I've  never  heard  anybody  great  at 
the  music  yet ! ' ' 

iii 

He  entered  the  great  circular  hall,  and  sat,  very  solemnly, 
in  his  seat  on  the  ground  floor.  He  felt  nervous  and  uneasy 
and  certain  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  write  adequately 
of  the  concert.  He  tried  to  think  of  suitable  words  to 
apply  to  great  music,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

not  think  at  all.  He  glanced  about  the  Hall,  hoping  that 
perhaps  he  would  find  inspiration  in  the  ceiling,  but  there 
was  no  inspiration  there.  He  could  see  wires  stretched 
across  the  roof  from  side  to  side,  and  there  were  great 
pieces  of  canvas  radiating  from  the  central  cluster  of  lights 
in  the  dome.  He  wondered  why  the  wires  were  there. 
Blondin,  he  remembered,  had  walked  across  a  wire,  as  thin- 
looking  as  those,  which  was  stretched  high  up  in  the  roof 
of  the  Exhibition  at  the  Old  Linen  Hall  in  Belfast ;  but  he 
could  scarcely  believe  that  these  wires  were  intended  for 
tight-rope  performances.  He  turned  to  a  man  at  his  side. 
"Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  those  things  are  for?" 
he  asked,  pointing  to  them. 

"To  break  the  echoes,"  the  man  replied,  entering  into  an 
involved  account  of  acoustics.  ' '  It  '&  all  humbug  really, ' '  he 
added.  "They  don't  break  the  echoes  at  all,  but  we  all 
imagine  that  they  do,  and  so  we're  quite  happy !" 

The  warm,  comfortable  look  of  the  red-curtained  boxes 
in  the  softened  electric  light  pleased  him,  and  he  liked  the 
effect  of  the  tiers  rising  up  to  the  high  roof,  and  the  great 
spread  of  floor,  and  the  gigantic  magnificence  of  the 
organ. 

"How  many  people  does  this  place  hold?"  he  demanded 
of  his  neighbour. 

"About  ten  thousand,"  his  neighbour  answered,  glancing 
at  him  quizzically.  "Is  this  the  first  time  you've  been 
here?" 

' '  Yes.  I  'm  new  to  London.  They  must  take  a  great  deal 
of  money  in  a  night  at  a  place  like  this.  An  immense 
amount ! ' ' 

"They  do.  It's  part  of  the  Albert  Memorial,  this  hall. 
The  other  part  is  in  the  Park  across  the  road.  Have  you 
seen  it?" 

"  No, "  said  John.     "  Is  it  any  good  ? ' ' 

"Well,"  said  the  stranger,  "we've  tried  to  overlook  it 
.  .  .  but  unfortunately  it's  too  big.  There  are  some  ex- 


242  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

cellent  bits  in  it,  but  the  whole  effect !  .  .  .  Poor  dear  Queen 
Victoria  .  .  .  she  was  a  little  woman,  and  so,  of  course,  she 
believed  in  magnitude.  She  liked  Bigness.  She's  out  of 
fashion  nowadays  .  .  .  people  titter  behind  their  hands 
when  they  speak  of  her  .  .  .  and  there's  a  tendency  to  re- 
gard her  as  a  somewhat  foolish  and  sentimental  old  woman 
.  .  .  but  really,  she  was  a  very  capable  old  girl  in  her  nar- 
row way,  and  there  was  nothing  soft  about  her.  She  was  as 
hard  as  nails  .  .  .  almost  a  cruel  woman  .  .  .  she'd  compel 
her  maids-of -honour  to  stand  in  her  presence  until  the  poor 
girls  fainted  with  fatigue.  ...  I'm  sure  she'd  have  made 
Queen  Elizabeth  feel  uncomfortable  in  some  ways.  This 
hall  is  a  memorial  to  her  husband ! ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  John.  "There's  a  Memorial  in  Belfast  to 
him.  What  did  he  do?" 

' '  He  was  Queen  Victoria 's  husband ! ' ' 

"I  suppose,"  said  John,  "it  wasn't  much  fun  being  her 
man  ? ' ' 

' '  Fun ! ' '  exclaimed  the  stranger.  ' '  Well,  of  course,  it  de- 
pends on  what  you  call  fun ! ' ' 

There  was  a  bustling  sound  from  the  platform  and  some 
applause,  and  then  a  dark-looking  man  emerged  from  the 
sloping  gangway  underneath  the  organ  and  sat  down  at  the 
piano.  He  played  Mascagni's  Pavana  delle  Maschere,  and 
while  he  played  it,  John  took  some  writing  paper  from  his 
pocket  and  prepared  to  note  down  his  opinions  of  the 
evening 's  entertainment. 

"Hilloa,"  said  the  stranger  in  a  whisper,  "are  you  a 
critic?" 

John,  feeling  extraordinarily  important,  nodded  his 
head  and  continued  to  listen  to  the  music.  It  sounded  quite 
pleasant,  but  it  conveyed  nothing  to  him.  All  he  could 
think  of  was  the  contortions  of  the  pianist  as  he  played  his 
piece,  and  he  wished  that  all  pianists  could  be  concealed 
behind  screens  so  that  their  grimaces  and  gyrations  should 
not  be  seen.  He  ought  to  say  something  about  the  man, 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  243 

but  he  had  no  idea  of  what  was  fitting !  .  .  .  The  solo  ended 
and  was  followed  by  another  one,  and  then  the  pianist  stood 
up  to  acknowledge  the  applause. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  the  stranger  respectfully 
asked,  and  John,  aware  of  the  respect  in  his  voice  and  con- 
scious that  he  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  it,  murmured, 
"Um-m-m!  Not  bad!" 

"Coldish,  I  think,"  the  stranger  continued.  "Techni- 
cally skilful,  but  hardly  any  feeling!" 

John  considered  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  an- 
swered very  judicially.  "Yes!  Yes,  I  think  that's  a  fair 
description  of  him!" 

He  waited  until  the  stranger  was  engaged  in  reading  the 
programme,  and  then  he  jotted  down  on  his  writing-paper, 
"Mr.  Pietro  Mancinelli  played  Mascagni's  Pavana  delle 
Maschere  with  great  technical  ability,  but  with  hardly  any 
emotional  quality ! ' ' 

"I'm  very  glad  I  sat  down  beside  this  chap,"  he  mur- 
mured to  himself,  as  the  accompanist  plaj^ed  the  opening 
bars  of  Handel's  Droop  not,  young  lover,  and  then  he 
settled  down  to  listen  to  the  man  who  sang  it.  He  was 
happier  here,  for  singing  was  more  easy  to  judge  than 
instrumental  music.  Either  a  song  was  well  sung,  he  told 
himself,  or  it  was  not  well  sung,  and  the  gentleman  who  was 
singing  Droop  not,  young  lover  certainly  had  a  voice  that 
sounded  well  in  that  great  hall.  .  .  .  He  wrote  in  his  report 
that  "Mr.  Albert  Luton's  magnificent  voice  was  heard  to 
great  advantage  in  Handel's  charming  aria  ..."  and  was 
exceedingly  glad  that  he  had  lately  read  some  musical 
notices  in  one  of  the  newspapers,  and  could  remember  some 
of  the  phrases  that  had  been  used  in  them. 

"Now  for  a  treat,"  said  the  stranger,  as  a  burst  of 
hearty  applause  opened  out  from  the  platform  and  went 
cill  round  the  hall. 

John  glanced  towards  the  passage  leading  to  the  artist's 
room  and  saw  a  smiling,  plump  lady,  with  very  bright,  dark 


244.  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

eyes  and  dark  hair  come  on  to  the  platform.  She  was  clad 
in  white  that  made  her  Italian  looks  more  pronounced. 

" Tetrazzini ! "  the  stranger  whispered  in  John's  ear. 

The  applause  died  down,  and  the  singer  stood  rigidly 
in  front  of  the  platform  while  the  pianist  played  the  open- 
ing of  Verdi's  Caro  nome.  Then  her  voice  sounded  very 
clear  and  bell-like  in  the  deep  silence  of  the  great  hall. 
.  .  .  She  sang  Solveig's  Song  by  Greig  and  A  Pastoral  by 
Veraeini,  and  then  the  satiated  audience  allowed  her  to  re- 
tire from  the  platform. 

John  sat  back  in  his  seat  in  a  dazed  fashion.  All  round 
him  were  applauding  men  and  women  .  .  .  and  he  could 
not  applaud.  There  was  a  buzz  of  admiring  talk,  and  he 
could  hear  the  words  ' '  wonderful ' '  and  ' '  magnificent "... 
and  he  had  not  been  moved  at  all.  The  great  voice  had 
not  caused  him  to  feel  any  thrill  or  emotion  whatever.  It 
was  wonderful,  indeed,  but  that  was  all  that  it  was.  There 
was  no  generous  glow  in  her  music ;  she  did  not  cause  him 
to  feel  any  emotion  other  than  that  of  astonishment  at  the 
perfection  of  her  vocal  organs.  He  had  imagined  that  the 
great  singer's  voice  would  compel  him  to  jump  out  of  his 
seat  and  wave  his  hands  wildly  and  shout  and  cheer  .  .  . 
but  instead  he  had  sat  still  and  wondered  at  the  marvellous 
way  in  which  her  throat  functioned. 

"Well?"  said  his  neighbour,  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
would  say  that  only  words  of  an  extremely  adulatory  char- 
acter were  conceivable  after  such  a  performance. 

' '  She 's  a  very  remarkable  woman, ' '  John  replied. 

"Remarkable!"  his  neighbour  indignantly  exclaimed. 
"She's  a  miracle!  .  .  ." 

John  disregarded  his  ecstatics.  ' '  I  kept  on  thinking  of  a 
clever  machine,"  he  said.  "The  wheels  went  round  with- 
out a  hitch.  She's  a  grand  invention,  that  woman!  She 
can  sing  her  pieces  without  thinking  about  them.  She 
hardly  knows  the  notes  are  coming  out  of  her  mouth  .  .  . 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  245 

she  doesn't  know  where  they  come  from  or  why  they  come 
at  all,  and  I  don't  suppose  it  matters  to  her  where  they  go. 
There's  a  grand  machine  in  our  place  that  prints  the 
papers.  You  put  a  big  roll  of  white  paper  on  to  it,  and 
you  turn  a  wee  handle,  and  the  machine  sends  the  roll 
spinning  round  and  round  until  it's  done,  and  a  lot  of 
folded  papers,  nicely  printed,  come  tumbling  out  in  counted 
batches,  all  ready  to  be  taken  away  and  sold  in  the  shops 
and  streets.  It's  a  wonderful  machine  .  .  .  but  it  can't 
read  its  own  printing  and  it  doesn't  know  what's  in  the 
papers  after  it 's  done  with  them.  That 's  what  she 's  like ;  a 
wonderful  machine !  .  .  . " 

"My  dear  sir,"  the  stranger  exclaimed,  but  John  pre- 
vented him  from  saying  any  more. 

"That's  my  opinion  anyway,"  he  went  on,  "and  I  can 
only  think  the  things  I  think.  I  can't  think  what  other 
people  think!" 

"A  limitation,"  said  the  stranger.  "A  distinct  limita- 
tion!" 

"Mebbe  it  is,  but  I  don't  see  what  that  matters!" 

After  Tetrazzini  had  left  the  platform  and  the  applause 
of  her  admirers  had  died  away,  there  was  a  violin  solo,  and 
then  came  an  interval  of  fifteen  minutes.  John  determined 
to  write  part  of  his  notice  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Hall,  and 
he  got  up  from  his  seat  to  do  so.  He  mounted  the  stairs 
that  led  to  the  first  tier  of  boxes,  and  as  he  approached 
them,  he  saw  Eleanor  Moore  sitting  in  the  box  nearest  the 
exit  through  which  he  was  about  to  pass.  There  were  other 
people  in  the  box  .  .  .  girls,  he  thought  .  .  .  but  he  hardly 
saw  them.  As  he  came  nearer  to  her,  she  raised  her  eyes 
from  her  programme  and  looked  straight  at  him,  and  for  a 
few  moments  neither  of  them  averted  their  eyes.  Then 
she  looked  away,  and  he  passed  through  the  curtained 
exit. 


246  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

iv 

He  had  found  her  again !  She  had  not  flown  away  from 
London  .  .  .  she  was  not  ill,  as  he  had  so  alarmingly  im- 
agined, nor,  as  he  had  horribly  imagined  for  one  dreadful 
moment,  was  she  dead.  She  lived  .  .  .  she  was  well  .  .  . 
she  was  here  in  this  very  hall,  separated  from  him  only  by  a 
thin  partition  of  wood  .  .  .  and  she  had  looked  at  him  with- 
out fear  in  her  eyes.  He  mounted  the  short  flight  of  stairs 
leading  to  the  corridor  on  to  which  the  doors  of  the  boxes 
opened,  and  read  the  name  written  on  the  card  underneath 
the  number  painted  on  the  door  of  the  box  in  which  Eleanor 
was  sitting.  "The  Viscountess  Walbrook. "  The  name 
puzzled  him,  and  he  turned  to  an  attendant,  a  lugubrious 
man  in  a  dingy  frock-coat  looking  extraordinarily  like  a 
dejected  image  of  Albert  the  Good,  and  asked  for  an  ex- 
planation. 

'  "It  means  that  she  owns  that  box, ' '  he  explained.  ' '  Lots 
of  the  seats  and  boxes  'ere  belong  to  private  people.  That 
one  belongs  to  the  Viscountess  Walbrook.  She  in'erited  it 
from  'er  father.  Very  kind- 'carted  woman  .  .  .  always 
gives  'er  box  to  orphans  and  widders  and  people  like  that ! ' ' 

' '  Then  the  ladies  in  the  box  now  are  not  friends  of  hers  ? ' ' 
John  asked,  meaning  by  ' '  friends, ' '  relatives. 

"I  shouldn't  think  so,"  the  attendant  answered.  "I 
noticed  the  party  comin '  in.  They  come  in  a  'ired  carriage. 
No,  they're  orphans  or  widders  or  somethin'.  There's  al- 
ways a  lot  of  orphans  an '  widders  about  this  'All,  partic  'lar 
on  a  Sunday  afternoon  when  they  're  doin '  'Andel  's  Messiar. 
And  the  Elijiar,  too!  You  know!  Mendelssohn's  bit! 
Reg 'lar  fascination  for  orphans  an'  widders  that  'as.  I 
call  it  depressin'  meself,  but  some  'ow  it  seems  to  fit  in  with 
orphans  an' widders!  ..." 

John  thanked  the  attendant  and  moved  down  the  cor- 
ridor. He  must  not  lose  sight  of  Eleanor  now  that  he  had 
found  her  again.  If  only  he  could  discover  where  she  lived. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  247 

.  .  .  He  stood  where  he  could  see  the  door  of  the  Viscount- 
ess Walbrook's  box,  and  brooded  over  the  chances  of  dis- 
covering Eleanor's  home.  He  must  not  lose  sight  of  her 
.  .  .  that  was  imperative.  The  luckiest  thing  in  the  world 
had  brought  him  into  her  company  again,  and  he  might 
never  have  such  an  opportunity  again  if  he  let  this  one  slip 
away  from  him.  He  could  look  round  every  now  and  then 
from  his  seat  to  assure  himself  that  she  was  still  in  the  box, 
but  supposing  she  were  to  go  away  in  the  interval  between 
his  assuring  glances?  Even  if  he  were  to  see  her  leaving 
the  box,  he  would  have  some  difficulty  in  getting  to  her  in 
time  to  keep  her  in  sight !  .  .  .  No,  no,  he  must  not  run  the 
risk  of  losing  her  again.  He  must  stay  in  some  place  from 
which  he  could  immediately  see  her  leaving  the  box  and 
from  which  he  could  easily  follow  her  without  ever  missing 
her.  He  looked  about  him,  and  felt  inclined  to  sit  down  in 
the  corridor  and  wait  there  until  Eleanor  emerged  from  the 
Viscountess  Walbrook's  private  property!  But  the  corri- 
dor was  a  draughty  and  conspicuous  and  depressing  place 
in  which  to  loiter,  and  he  felt  that  the  cheerless  attendant 
might  suspect  him  of  some  felonious  or  other  criminal  intent 
if  he  were  to  stay  there  during  the  whole  of  the  second 
part  of  the  programme.  He  peered  through  the  curtains 
which  separated  the  corridor  from  the  auditorium  and  saw 
an  empty  seat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  gangway  to  that 
on  which  Lady  Walbrook's  box  was  situated;  and  when  the 
interval  was  ended  and  the  violinist  began  to  play  the  first 
movement  of  Beethoven 's  Romance  in  G,  he  slipped  into  the 
seat,  and  sat  so  that  he  could  see  every  movement  that 
Eleanor  made.  How  very  beautiful  she  looked!  She 
seemed  more  beautiful  to  him  in  her  blue  evening  dress  even 
than  she  had  seemed  on  the  first  day  that  he  saw  her.  Un- 
til he  had  come  to  London,  he  had  never  seen  a  woman  in 
evening  dress,  except  in  photographs  and  in  illustrated  pa- 
pers, and  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  had  seen  real  women 
in  real  evening  clothes  in  a  theatre,  the  sight  of  their  bare 


248  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

white  shoulders  and  bosoms  had  appeared  to  him  both  beau- 
tiful and  improper.  Eleanor's  shoulders  were  bare,  and  as 
he  looked  at  her,  he  could  see  her  bosom  very  gently  rising 
and  falling  with  her  breathing,  but  he  felt  no  confusion  in 
seeing  her  in  that  bare  state.  She  was  beautiful  ...  he 
could  think  of  nothing  else  but  her  beauty.  Her  shapely 
head  was  perfectly  poised  upon  her  strong  neck,  and  he  was 
aware  instantly  of  the  graceful  line  of  her  shoulders.  If 
she  had  not  been  in  those  pretty  evening  clothes,  he  would 
not  have  known  that  her  neck  and  shoulders  were  so  beau- 
tiful. Her  soft,  dark  hair,  loosely  dressed  over  her  ears, 
glowed  with  loveliness,  and  the  narrow  golden  band  that 
bound  it  was  no  brighter  than  her  eyes.  How  lovely  she  is, 
he  said  to  himself,  indifferent  to  the  applause  that  was  of- 
fered to  the  violinist,  and  then  he  fell  to  admiring  the  way 
in  which  she  clapped  her  gloved  hands  together,  slowly  but 
firmly.  Her  applause  was  not  languid  applause,  neither 
was  it  without  discrimination.  She  seemed  to  John  to  be 
telling  the  violinist  that  he  had  played  well,  but  might  have 
played  better.  .  .  . 

' '  She 's  the  great  wee  girl, ' '  he  said  to  himself. 

He  saw  now  that  she  shared  the  box  with  two  other  girls, 
but  he  had  no  further  interest  in  them  than  that  they  were 
in  her  company  and  that  they  were  not  men.  He  wished 
that  her  hands  were  not  gloved  so  that  he  might  see  whether 
she  wore  rings  on  her  fingers,  and  if  so,  on  which  fingers 
they  were  worn.  Supposing  she  were  engaged  to  some  other 
man  ...  or  worse  still,  supposing  she  were  married!  It 
was  possible  for  her  to  have  been  married  since  he  last  saw 
her!  .  .  .  An  agony  of  doubt  and  despair  came  upon  him 
as  he  brooded  over  the  thought  of  her  possible  marriage,  and 
although  he  was  aware  that  Tetrazzini  was  singing  Maz- 
zone's  Sogni  e  Canti  and  Benedict's  Carnevale  di  Venezia, 
the  music  was  no  more  than  a  noise  in  the  air  to  him.  What 
should  he  do  if  Eleanor  were  married?  Bad  enough  if  she 
were  engaged,  but  married!  .  .  .  An  engagement  was  not 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  249 

an  irrefragable  affair,  and  he  could  woo  her  so  ardently 
that  his  rival  would  swiftly  vanish  from  her  thoughts  .  .  . 
but  a  marriage!  .  .  .  He  knew  that  marriages  were  not  so 
irrefragable  as  they  might  be,  and  that  a  very  desperate 
couple  might  go  to  the  length  of  running  away  together 
even  though  one  of  them  were  married  to  someone  else  .  .  . 
but  he  did  not  like  the  thought  of  running  away  with  a  mar- 
ried woman.  Eleanor  might  not  wish  to  run  away  with  him 
.  .  .  his  agony  of  mind  was  such  that  he  stooped  to  that  hu- 
mility of  imagination  .  .  .  she  might  very  dearly  love  her 
husband !  .  .  . 

Lord  alive,  why  couldn't  that  Italian  woman  stop  sing- 
ing !  Why  was  not  this  silly  music  ended  so  that  he  could 
settle  his  doubts  about  Eleanor's  freedom  to  marry  him! 
Why  could  the  audience  not  be  content  with  two  songs 
from  the  woman  instead  of  demanding  encores  from 
her!  .  .  . 

And  then  the  concert  ended  after  what  seemed  an  in- 
terminable time,  and  the  audience  began  to  emerge  from  the 
Hall.  John  went  quickly  into  the  corridor  and  waited  un- 
til the  door  of  the  Viscountess  Walbrook's  box  opened  and 
Eleanor,  followed  by  her  friends,  came  out  of  it.  She  had 
a  long  coat  with  a  furry  collar  over  her  pretty  blue  frock, 
and  as  she  gathered  her  skirts  about  her,  he  could  -see  that 
she  was  wearing  blue  satin  shoes  and  blue  silk  stockings. 
One  hand  firmly  grasped  her  skirts  and  the  other  hand 
held  the  furry  collar  in  front  of  her  mouth.  She  passed  so 
close  to  him  that  he  could  have  touched  her  glowing  cheeks 
with  his  hands,  but  she  did  not  see  him.  The  crush  of 
people  made  progress  slow  and  difficult,  but  he  was  glad 
of  this  for  it  enabled  him  to  be  near  to  her  much  longer 
than  he  could  otherwise  have  hoped  to  be.  As  she  passed 
him,  he  had  fallen  in  behind  her,  and  now  he  could  touch 
her  very  gently  without  her  being  aware  that  his  touch  was 
any  more  than  the  unavoidable  contact  of  people  in  I  he 
crowd.  There  was  a  faint  smell  of  violets  about  her  clothes. 


250  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

and  he  snuffed  up  the  delicate  odour  eagerly.  Mrs.  Cream 
had  smelt  strongly  of  perfume,  an  overpowering  hothouse- 
smelling  perfume  that  had  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were 
stifling,  but  this  delicate  odour  pleased  him.  How  natural, 
how  very  obvious  even,  that  Eleanor  should  use  the  scent 
of  violets ! 

When  they  reached  the  front  of  the  Hall,  Eleanor  turned 
to  her  friends  and  made  some  remark  about  a  carriage.  He 
supposed  they  had  hired  a  vehicle  to  bring  them  to  the  Hall 
and  take  them  home  again,  and  when  he  discovered  that  his 
supposition  was  right,  a  sense  of  disappointment  filled  him. 
He  had  hoped  that  they  would  walk  home  or  that  they 
would  get  on  to  a  'bus!  .  .  . 

He  watched  them  climb  into  the  shabby  hired  brougham, 
and  when  the  door  was  closed  upon  them  and  the  driver 
had  whipped  up  his  horse,  he  followed  it  into  the  Kensing- 
ton Road.  The  traffic  was  so  congested  that  the  horse  had 
to  move  at  a  walking  pace,  and  John  was  easily  able  to  keep 
close  to  it ;  but  in  a  few  moments,  he  told  himself,  the  driver 
would  get  clear  of  the  congestion  and  then  the  horse  would 
begin  to  trot;  and  while  the  thought  passed  through  his 
mind,  the  driver  cracked  his  whip  and  the  slow,  spiritless 
horse  began  to  move  more  rapidly  .  .  .  and  as  it  gathere'd 
speed,  resolution  suddenly  came  to  John  out  of  a  sudden 
vision  of  a  boy's  pleasure. 

"Fancy  not  thinking  of  this  before,"  he  said,  as  he 
swung  himself  on  to  the  back  of  the  carriage  and  balanced 
uncomfortably  on  the  bar. 


The  brougham  drove  along  Kensington  Road  and  then 
turned  sharply  into  Church  Street  along  which  it  was 
drawn  at  an  ambling  pace  to  Netting  Hill.  It  turned  to  the 
right,  and  went  along  the  Bayswater  Road,  and  then  John 
lost  his  bearings.  He  was  in  one  of  the  streets  off  the 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  251 

Bayswater  Road,  but  in  the  darkness  he  could  not  tell  what 
its  name  was.  Presently  the  driver  shouted  "Whoa!"  to 
his  horse  and  drew  up  in  front  of  a  dreary,  tall  house,  with 
a  pillared  portico,  and  John  had  only  sufficient  time  in 
which  to  drop  from  the  back  of  the  carriage  and  skip  across 
the  street  to  the  opposite  pavement  before  the  three  girls 
alighted  from  the  brougham  and  stood  for  a  few  moments  in 
front  of  the  house.  The  driver  drove  off,  and  John,  lurk- 
ing in  the  shadow  of  a  doorway,  watched  the  girls  as  they 
stood  talking  together.  Then  he  saw  two  of  them  climb  up 
the  steps  leading  to  the  house,  and  Eleanor,  calling  out 
"Good-night!"  to  them,  went  round  the  corner.  He  hur- 
ried after  her,  and  saw  her  going  up  the  steps  of  a  similar 
house  immediately  round  the  corner  from  the  one  into  which 
her  friends  had  entered.  She  was  fumbling  at  the  keyhole 
with  her  key  as  he  came  opposite  the  house,  and  she  did  not 
see  him  until  he  spoke  to  her. 

' '  Miss  Moore, ' '  he  said  in  a  hesitating  manner,  taking  off 
his  hat  as  he  spoke. 

She  started  and  turned  round.  "What  is  it?"  she  said 
in  an  alarmed  manner. 

"I  .  .  .  I've  been  trying  to  find  you  for  a  long 
time!  .  .  ." 

She  shrank  away  from  him.  "I  don't  know  you,"  she 
said.  "You've  made  a  mistake.  Please  go  away!" 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  me,"  he  pleaded.  "I  know  you 
don't  know  me,  but  I  know  you.  You're  Eleanor 
Moore !  .  .  . " 

She  came  forward  from  the  shadow.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
half  in  alarm,  half  out  of  curiosity.  "Yes,  that's  my 
name,  but  I  don't  know  you!  ..."  Then  she  recognised 
him.  "Oh,  you're  that  man!"  she  said,  now  wholly 
alarmed. 

"I  saw  you  at  the  tea-shop,"  he  replied  hastily.  "You 
remember  you  left  a  letter  behind  and  I  picked  it  up  and 
gave  it  to  you.  That 's  how  I  know  your  name ! ' ' 


252  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Why  are  you  persecuting  me?"  she  demai:  led,  almost 
tearfully. 

He  was  daunted  by  her  tone.  "Persecuting  you!"  he 
said. 

"Yes.  You  follow  me  about  in  the  street,  and  stare  at 
me.  I  saw  you  this  evening  at  the  Albert  Hall,  and  you 
stared  at  me !  .  .  . " 

' '  Because  I  love  you,  Eleanor ! ' '  He  went  nearer  to  her, 
and  as  he  did  so,  she  retreated  further  into  the  shadow. 
"Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  please,"  he  said.  "I  fell  in  love 
with  you  the  moment  I  saw  you,  but  I  'm  a  stranger  in  this 
town  and  I  had  no  way  of  getting  to  know  you.  I  tried 
hard,  Eleanor!  ..." 

"Don't  call  me  Eleanor!" 

"I  can't  help  it.  I  think  of  you  as  Eleanor.  I  always 
call  you  Eleanor  to  myself.  You  see,  dear,  I  'm  in  love  with 
you!" 

"But  you  don't  know  me.  I  wish  you'd  go  away.  I 
shall  ring  the  bell  or  tell  the  policeman  at  the  corner !  .  .  . " 

"Let  me  tell  you  about  myself,"  he  pleaded. 

" I  don 't  want  to  hear  about  you.  I  don't  like  you.  You 
stare  so  hard,  and  you're  always  looking  at  my  stock- 
ings! .  .  ." 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Yes,  you  are.    You're  looking  at  them  now!" 

"Only  because  you  mentioned  them.  I  won't  look  at 
them  if  you  tell  me  not  to!  .  .  ." 

' '  I  don 't  want  to  tell  you  anything, ' '  she  murmured.  ' '  I 
only  want  you  to  go  away !  .  .  . " 

"I  know  that,  dearest,  but  just  let  me  tell  you  this.  My 
name  is  John  MacDermott!  ..." 

' '  I  don 't  care  what  your  name  is, ' '  she  interrupted.  ' '  It 
doesn  't  interest  me  in  the  least !  .  .  . " 

"But  it  will,  Eleanor,  darling.  When  you're  married  to 
me!  .  .  ." 

She  burst  out  laughing.     ' '  I  think  you  're  mad, ' '  she  said. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  253 

"I  was  very  lonely,  Eleanor,  when  I  saw  you.  I  have 
not  got  a  friend  in  London!  ..."  He  omitted  to  remem- 
ber the  existence  of  Hinde.  "I  come  from  Ireland!  ..." 

"Oh!" 

' '  And  I  had  not  been  in  London  more  than  a  day  when  I 
saw  you.  I  fell  in  love  with  you  at  once !  .  .  . " 

"Absurd!"  she  said. 

"It's  true.  After  you'd  gone  back  to  your  office,  I  went 
for  a  long  walk,  but  all  the  time  I  was  thinking  of  you,  and 
I  hurried  back  to  the  shop  at  teatime,  hoping  I'd  see  you. 
And  you  were  there,  looking  lovelier  than  you  looked  in  the 
middle  of  the  day.  Do  you  remember  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "You  looked  so  ridiculous!  ..." 

"Perhaps  I  did,  but  I  didn't  care  how  I  looked  so  long  as 
I  was  near  you.  I  felt  miserable  and  lonely,  and  you  were 
the  only  person  in  London  I  knew !  .  .  . " 

"But  you  didn't  know  me!"  she  insisted. 

"I  knew  your  name,  and  I  was  in  love  with  you.  That 
was  enough.  I  tried  to  speak  to  you,  but  you  would  not 
let  me.  I  asked  you  to  be  friends  with  me,  and  you  got  up 
and  walked  away.  I  felt  ashamed  of  myself  because  I 
thought  I  had  frightened  you,  and  I  hurried  out  of  the  shop 
and  followed  you  so  that  I  might  tell  you  how  sorry  I  was 
and  how  much  I  loved  you,  but  I  lost  you  at  your  office,  and 
the  man  at  the  lift  nearly  had  a  fight  with  me !  .  .  . " 

"Then  it  was  you  who  had  been  asking  for  me?  He  told 
me  that  a  suspicious  character  had  been  hanging  about  the 
hall,  enquiring  for  me.  I  thought  it  might  be  you!" 

"I  don't  look  suspicious,  do  I?" 

"You  behave  suspiciously.  You  speak  to  people  whom 
you  do  not  know,  and  you  follow  them  in  the  street!  .  .  ." 

' '  Only  you,  Eleanor.     Not  anybody  else ! ' ' 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  she 
turned  to  the  door  and  inserted  the  key  in  the  lock. 

"Well,  please  go  away  now,"  she  said.  "You  can't  do 
any  good  here !  .  .  . " 


254.  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Let  me  come  in  and  tell  your  father  and  mother  I  want 
to  marry  you ! ' ' 

She  opened  the  door  and  gazed  at  him  as  if  she  could  not 
believe  her  ears. 

"This  is  a  residential  club  for  women,"  she  said.  "I 
have  no  parents.  I  think  you're  the  silliest  man  I've  ever 
encountered.  Please  go  away!  You'll  get  me  talked 
about!  .  .  ." 

She  shut  the  door  in  his  face. 

He  stared  blankly  at  the  glass  panels  of  the  door  for  a 
few  moments  and  then  went  down  the  steps  into  the  street, 
and  as  he  did  so,  he  saw  a  light  suddenly  illuminate  the 
room  immediately  above  the  pillared  portico.  He  stared  up 
at  it,  and  saw  that  the  window  was  open,  and  while  he 
looked,  he  saw  Eleanor  come  to  it  and  begin  to  draw  it 
down. 

He  called  out  to  her.  "Eleanor!"  he  said.  "Hi, 
Eleanor!" 

She  peered  out  of  the  window,  and  then  leant  her  head 
through  the  opening.  "There's  a  policeman  at  the  cor- 
ner, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  shall  call  him  if  you  don 't  go  away ! ' ' 

"Very  well,"  he  replied.  "They  can't  put  a  man  in 
gaol  for  loving  a  woman ! ' ' 

' '  They  can  put  him  in  gaol  for  annoying  her ! ' ' 

"  I  'm  not  annoying  you.  How  can  I  annoy  you  when  I  'm 
in  love  with  you?  No,  don't  interrupt  me.  You  haven't 
let  me  get  a  word  out  of  my  mouth  all  night ! ' '  He  could 
hear  her  laughing  at  him.  ' '  Are  you  codding  me  ? "  he  said. 

' '  What  ? ' '  she  replied  in  a  puzzled  voice. 

"Are  you  codding  me?"  he  repeated.  "Are  you  mak- 
ing fun  of  me  ? ' ' 

She  leant  out  of  the  window  as  if  she  were  trying  to  see 
him. more  closely.  "You  really  are  funny,"  she  said.  "I 
was  afraid  of  you  .  .  .  you  stared  so  ...  but  I'm  not 
afraid  of  you  now.  You're  a  funny  little  fellow,  but  I  do 
wish  you'd  go  away!" 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  255 

"Come  down  and  talk  to  me,  and  I'll  go  home  con- 
tent! .  .  ." 

"You're  being  silly  again!" 

"No,  I'm  not.  I  tell  you,  girl,  I'm  mad  in  love  with 
you,  and  I  '11  sit  on  your  doorstep  all  night  'til  you  agree  to 
go  out  with  me ! ' ' 

"The  policeman  would  lock  you  up  if  you  were  to  do 
that,"  she  replied.  "I'm  not  in  love  with  you  ...  I  don't 
even  like  you  ...  I  think  you're  a  horrid  man,  staring  at 
people  the  way  you  do  ...  and  I  won't  'go  out  with  you,' 
as  you  call  it.  I'm  not  a  servant  girl!  ..." 

"What  does  it  matter  to  me  what  sort  of  a  girl  you  are, 
if  I  'm  in  love  with  you.  You  must  like  me  ...  you  can 't 
help  it!  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  can't  I?" 

"No.  I  never  heard  tell  yet  of  a  man  loving  a  woman  the 
way  I  love  you,  and  her  not  to  fall  in  love  with  him ! ' ' 

"Don't  talk  so  loudly,  please,"  she  said  in  a  lowered  tone. 
"People  will  hear  you,  and  there's  someone  coming  down 
the  street." 

"I  don't  care!  .  .  ." 

' '  But  I  do.  Now  listen  to  me,  Mr.  .  .  .  Mr.  ...  I  can 't 
remember  your  name ! ' ' 

"My  name's  MacDermott,  but  you  can  call  me  John." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  MacDermott,  but  I  don't  wish  to  call 
you  John.  Now  listen  to  me.  I  think  you're  a  very  ro- 
mantic young  man !  .  .  .  No,  please  let  me  finish  one  sen- 
tence !  You  're  a  very  romantic  young  man,  and  I  daresay 
you  think  that  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  tell  the  first  girl 
you  meet  that  you're  in  love  with  her,  and  she'll  say,  'Oh, 
thank  you ! '  and  fall  into  your  arms.  Well  you  're  wrong ! 
You  may  think  you're  very  romantic,  but  I  think  you're 
just  a  tedious  fool !  .  .  . " 

"A  what?" 

"A  tedious  fool.  You've  made  me  feel  exceedingly  un- 
comfortable more  than  once.  I  had  to  stop  going  to  that 


256  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

tea-shop  because  I  couldn't  eat  my  food  without  your  eyes 
staring  at  me  all  the  time.  Fortunately,  the  work  I  was  do- 
ing in  the  City  was  only  a  temporary  job,  and  I  got  a  per- 
manent post  elsewhere  and  was  able  to  move  away  from  the 
City  altogether!  ..." 

"But  Eleanor!  .  .  ." 

' '  How  dare  you  call  me  Eleanor  1 ' ' 

"Because  I  love  you!"  he  said. 

She  seemed  to  be  nonplussed  by  his  reply.  She  did  not 
speak  for  a  few  moments.  Then,  altering  her  tone,  she 
said,  ' '  Oh,  well,  I  daresay  you  think  you  do ! " 

"I  don't  think.  I  know.  I '11  not  be  content  till  I  marry 
you.  Now,  Eleanor,'  do  you  hear  that  ? ' ' 

' '  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  you  !  .  .  . " 

"Come  down  to  the  doorstep  and  I'll  tell  you.  Will 
you?" 

' '  No,  of  course  not ! ' ' 

"Well,  how  can  you  blame  me  then  if  you  won't  listen 
to  me  when  I  offer  to  tell  you  about  myself.  You  know  my 
name.  John  MacDermott.  And  I  'm  Irish !  .  .  . " 

"Yes,"  she  interrupted,  "I'm  making  big  allowances  for 
that!" 

"My  family's  the  most  respected  family  in  Bally- 
ards!  .  .  ." 

"Where's  that?"  she  asked. 

"Do  you  not  know  either?  You're  the  second  person 
I've  met  in  London  didn't  know  that.  It's  in  County 
Down.  My  mother  lives  there,  and  so  does  my  Uncle  Wil- 
liam. I've  come  here  to  write  books!  ..." 

"Are  you  an  author?"  she  exclaimed  with  interest. 

"I  am,"  he  said  proudly.  "I've  written  a  novel  and 
I  'm  writing  a  play !  .  .  .  Come  down  and  I  '11  tell  you  about 
them!" 

"Oh,  no,  I  can't.  It's  too  late.  And  you  must  go  home. 
Where  do  you  live  ? ' ' 

"At  Brixton,"  he  answered. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  257 

"That's  miles  from  here.  And  you'll  miss  the  last  'bus 
if  you  don't  hurry !  ..." 

' '  I  can  walk.     Come  down,  will  you ! ' ' 

"No.  No,  no.  It's  much  too  late,"  she  said  hurriedly. 
"And  I  can't  stay  here  talking  to  you  any  longer.  Some- 
one will  make  a  complaint  about  me.  You'll  get  me  into 
trouble!  ..." 

"Well,  will  you  meet  me  to-morrow  somewhere?  Wher- 
ever you  like ! ' ' 

"No!  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  do!" 

"  No,  I  won 't.     Why  should  I  ? " 

"Because  I'm  in  love  with  you  and  want  you  to  meet 
me." 

"No!  .  .  ." 

"Then  I'll  sit  here  all  night  then.  I'll  let  the  peeler 
take  me  up,  and  I'll  tell  the  whole  world  I'm  in  love  with 
you!" 

' '  You  're  a  beast.     You  're  really  a  beast ! ' ' 

"I'm  not.  I'm  in  love  with  you.  That's  all.  Will  you 
meet  me  the  morrow  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know!  .  .  ." 

"Well,  make  up  your  mind  then." 

She  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should  meet  you!  ..." 

' '  Never  mind  about  that.     Just  meet  me ! " 

"Well  .  .  .  perhaps  .  .  .  only  perhaps,  mind  you  ...  I 
don't  promise  really  ...  I  might  meet  you  .  .  .  just  for 
a  minute  or  two!  ..." 

"Where?" 

"At  the  bookstall  in  Charing  Cross  station.  Do  you 
know  it?" 

"  I  '11  soon  find  it.     What  time  ? " 

"Five  o'clock!" 

"Right.     I'll  be  there  to  the  minute!  ..." 


258  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Go  home  now.  You've  a  long  way  to  go,  and  I'm  very 
tired!" 

"All  right,  Eleanor.  I  wish  you'd  come  down,  though. 
Just  for  a  wee  while ! ' ' 

"I  can't.     Good-night!" 

"Good-night,  my  dear.     You've  the  loveliest  eyes!  .  .  ." 

She  closed  the  window,  but  he  could  see  her  standing  be- 
hind the  glass  looking  at  him. 

He  kissed  his  hand  to  her  and  then,  when  she  had  moved 
away,  he  walked  off. 

"Good  night,  constable!"  he  said  cheerily  to  the  police- 
man at  the  corner. 

The  policeman  looked  suspiciously  at  him. 

"How  do  you  get  to  Brixton  from  here?"  John  con- 
tinued. 

"First  on  the  right,  first  on  the  left,  first  on  the  right 
again,  and  you're  in  the  Bayswater  Road.  Turn  to  the 
left  and  keep  on  until  you  reach  Marble  Arch.  You'll  get 
a  'bus  there,  if  you're  lucky.  If  you're  too  late,  you'll  have 
to  walk  it.  Go  down  Park  Lane  and  ask  again.  Make  for 
Victoria!" 

"Thanks,  "said  John. 

He  walked  along  the  Bayswater  Road,  singing  in  his 
heart,  and  after  a  while,  finding  that  the  street  was  almost 
empty,  he  began  to  sing  aloud.  The  roadway  shone  in  the 
cold  light  thrown  from  the  high  electric  lamps,  and  there 
was  a  faint  mist  hanging  about  the  trees  in  Kensington 
Gardens.  He  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  saw  that  it  was 
full  of  friendly  stars.  All  around  him  was  beauty  and 
light.  The  gleaming  roadway  and  the  gleaming  sky 
seemed  to  be  illuminated  in  honour  of  his  triumphant  love, 
for  he  did  not  doubt  that  his  love  was  triumphant.  The 
night  air  was  fresh  and  cool.  It  had  none  of  the  exhausted 
taste  that  the  air  seems  always  to  have  in  London  during 
the  day.  It  was  new,  clean  air,  fresh  from  the  sea  or  from 
the  hills,  and  he  took  off  his  hat  so  that  his  forehead  might 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  259 

be  fanned  by  it.  He  glanced  about  him  as  if  in  every 
shadow  he  expected  to  see  a  friend.  London  no  longer 
seemed  too  large  to  love. 

' '  I  like  this  place, ' '  he  said,  waving  his  hat  in  the  air. 

A  policeman  told  him  of  a  very  late  'bus  that  went  down 
Whitehall  and  would  take  him  as  far  as  Kensington  Gate, 
and  he  hurried  off  to  Charing  Cross  and  was  lucky  enough 
to  catch  the  'bus. 

' '  How  much  ? "  he  said  to  the  conductor. 

"Sixpence  on  this  'bus,"  the  conductor  replied. 

John  handed  a  shilling  to  him.  "You  can  keep  the 
change,"  he  said. 

vi 

Hinde  was  lying  on  the  sofa  in  the  sitting-room  when 
John,  slightly  tired,  but  too  elated  to  be  aware  of  his  fa- 
tigue, got  home. 

"Hilloa,"  he  said  sleepily,  "how  did  the  concert  go?" 

John  suddenly  remembered. 

"Holy  0  !"  he  exclaimed,  clapping  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"What's  that?"  Hinde  said. 

"I  forgot  all  about  it,"  John  replied. 

"Forgot  all  about  it!  Do  you  mean  you  didn't  go  to 
it?" 

"I  went  all  right,  but  I  forgot  to  take  my  notice  to  the 
office!" 

Hinde  sat  up  and  stared  at  him.  "You  forgot!  ..." 
He  could  not  say  any  more. 

John  told  him  of  the  encounter  with  Eleanor. 

"You  mean  to  say  you  let  your  paper  down  for  the  sake 
of  a  girl, ' '  Hinde  exclaimed  incredulously. 

"I'll  go  back  now,"  John  said,  turning  to  leave  the  room. 

"Go  back  wow/  What's  the  good  of  that?  The  paper's 
been  put  to  bed  half  an  hour  and  more  ago.  My  God 
Almighty  .  .  .  you  let  the  paper  down.  For  the  sake  of  a 
girl!" 


260 

He  seemed  to  have  difficulty  in  expressing  his  thoughts, 
and  he  sat  back  and  gaped  at  John  as  if  he  had  just  been 
informed  that  the  Last  Day  had  been  officially  announced. 

"You  needn't  show  your  nose  in  tluit  office  again,"  he 
said  again.  "I  never  heard  of  such  a  reason  for  letting  a 
paper  down!  Good  heavens,  man,  don't  you  realise  what 
you've  done?  You've  let  the  paper  down!" 

' '  I  'm  in  love  with  this  girl !  .  .  . " 

Hinde  almost  snarled  at  him.  "Ach-h-h,  love!"  he 
shouted.  "And  you  propose  to  be  a  journalist.  Let  your 
paper  down.  For  a  girl.  You  sloppy  fellow!  .  .  .  My 
heavens  above,  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  Letting  your 
paper  down!  ..." 

He  walked  about  the  room,  repeating  many  times  that 
John  had  ' '  let  his  paper  down. ' ' 

"And  I  recommended  you  to  Clotworthy,  too.  I  told 
him  you  had  the  stuff  in  you.  I  thought  you  had.  I 
thought  you  could  do  a  job  decently,  but  by  the  Holy  O, 
you're  no  good.  You  let  your  own  feelings  come  between 
you  and  your  work.  Oh !  Oh,  oh !  Oh,  go  to  bed  quick  or 
I  '11  knock  the  head  off  you.  1 11  not  be  responsible  for  my- 
self if  you  stand  there  any  longer  like  a  moonstruck  fool ! ' ' 

"If  you  talk  to  me  like  that,"  said  John,  "I'll  hit  you 
a  welt  on  the  jaw.  I'm  sorry  I  forgot  about  the  paper,  but 
sure  what  does  it  matter  anyway?  ..." 

"What  does  it  matter!"  Hinde  almost  shrieked  at  him. 
"Your  paper  will  be  the  only  paper  in  London  which  won't 
have  a  report  of  that  concert  in  it  to-morrow.  That 's  what 
it  matters  ?  I  'd  be  ashamed  to  let  my  paper  down  for  any 
reason  on  earth.  If  my  mother  was  dying,  I  wouldn't  let 
her  prevent  me  from  doing  my  job !  ...  If  you  can 't  un- 
derstand that,  John  MacDermott,  you  needn't  try  to  be  a 
journalist.  You  haven't  got  it  in  you.  Your  paper's  your 
father  and  your  mother  and  your  wife  and  your  children ! 
Oh,  go  to  bed,  out  of  my  sight,  or  I  '11  forget  myself !  .  .  . " 

John  walked  towards  the  door. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  261 

''I'd  rather  love  a  woman  any  day  than  a  paper,"  he  said. 

"Well,  go  and  love  her  then,  and  don't  try  to  interfere 
with  a  paper  again!  Don't  come  down  Fleet  Street  pre- 
tending you're  a  journalist!" 

"Good-night!" 

"Yah-h-h!"saidHinde. 


THE  FIFTH  CHAPTER 


IT  had  been  exceedingly  difficult  for  John  to  explain  his  de- 
fection to  Mr.  Clotworthy  and  to  Tarleton.  The  only  miti- 
gating feature  of  the  business  was  that  the  matter  to  be  re- 
ported was  only  a  concert.  Both  Mr.  Clotworthy  and 
Tarleton  trembled  when  they  thought  of  the  calamity  that 
would  have  befallen  the  paper  if  the  forgotten  report  had 
been  of  a  murder !  They  hardly  dared  contemplate  such  a 
devastating  prospect.  They  invited  John  to  think  of  an- 
other profession  and  wished  him  a  very  good  morning. 
Tarleton  quitted  the  room,  leaving  John  alone  with  the 
editor,  and  as  he  went  he  showed  such  contempt  towards 
him  as  is  only  shown  towards  the  meanest  of  God's  crea- 
tures. 

"Well,  where's  your  Ulster  now?"  said  Mr.  Clotworthy 
very  sardonically  when  they  were  alone  together. 

"I  know  rightly  I'm  in  the  wrong  from  your  point  of 
view,  Mr.  Clotworthy, ' '  John  replied,  ' '  but  I  'd  do  the  same 
thing  again  if  twenty  jobs  depended  on  it.  It's  hard  to 
make  you  understand,  and  mebbe  I'm  a  fool  to  try,  but 
there  it  is.  The  minute  I  clapped  my  eyes  on  her,  I  forgot 
everything  but  her.  I'm  sorry  I've  lost  my  post  here,  but 
I'd  be  sorrier  to  have  lost  her.  That's  all  about  it.  You 
were  very  kind  to  give  me  the  work,  and  I  wish  I  hadn  't  let 
your  paper  down  the  way  Hinde  says  I  did,  but  it 's  no  good 
me  pretending  about  it.  I'd  do  it  again  if  the  same  thing 
happened  another  time.  That's  the  beginning  and  end  of 
it  all.  I  'd  rather  be  her  husband  than  edit  a  dozen  papers 

262 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  263 

like  yours.  I'd  rather  be  her  husband  than  be  anything 
else  in  the  world ! ' ' 

"Well,  good  afternoon!"  said  Mr.  Clotworthy. 

"Good  afternoon!"  said  John,  turning  away. 

He  moved  towards  the  door  of  the  room,  feeling  much 
less  assurance  than  he  had  felt  when  he  came  into  it. 

"If  you  care  to  send  in  some  articles  for  page  six,"  Mr. 
Clotworthy  added,  "I'd  be  glad  to  see  them!" 

"Thank  you,"  said  John. 

"Not  at  all,"  the  editor  replied  without  glancing  up. 

He  left  the  Daily  Sensation  office,  and  walked  towards 
Charing  Cross.  A  queer  depression  had  settled  upon  his 
spirits.  Hinde  had  treated  him  as  if  he  were  mentally  de- 
ficient, and  he  knew  that  Mr.  Clotworthy  and  Tarleton,  par- 
ticularly Tarleton,  regarded  him  with  coldness,  but  he  was 
not  deeply  affected  by  their  disapproval.  Nevertheless,  de- 
pression possessed  him.  He  felt  that  Eleanor  would  fail  to 
keep  her  appointment.  Quietly  considered,  there  seemed  to 
be  no  reason  why  she  should  keep  it.  She  knew  absolutely 
nothing  of  him  except  what  he  had  told  her  while  she  leaned 
out  of  the  window.  How  was  she  to  know  that  he  was 
speaking  the  truth?  What  right  had  he  to  expect  her  to 
pay  any  heed  to  him  at  all?  Dreary,  drizzling  thoughts 
poured  through  his  mind.  He  felt  as  certain  that  his  novel 
would  not  be  published  as  he  felt  that  Eleanor  would  not 
be  at  the  bookstall  at  Charing  Cross  station  when  he  ar- 
rived there.  The  tragedy  on  which  he  was  working  had 
seemed  to  him  to  be  a  very  marvellous  play,  but  now  he 
thought  it  was  too  poor  to  be  worth  finishing.  He  had  been 
in  London  for  what  was  quite  a  long  time,  but  he  had 
achieved  nothing.  He  had  not  even  written  the  music-hall 
sketch  for  the  Creams.  He  had  not  earned  a  farthing  dur- 
ing the  time  that  he  had  been  in  London.  All  the  exalta- 
tion which  had  filled  him  as  he  walked  along  the  Bayswater 
Road  on  the  previous  night,  with  his  mind  full  of  Eleanor 
and  love  and  starshine  and  moonlight  and  gleaming  streets 


264  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

and  trees  hanging  with  mist  and  friendliness  for  all  men, 
had  gone  clean  out  of  him.  Fleet  Street  was  a  dirty,  ill- 
ventilated  alley  full  of  scuffling  men  and  harassed  women. 
London  itself  was  a  great  angry  thing,  a  place  of  distrust 
and  contention,  where  no  one  ever  offered  a  friendly  greet- 
ing to  a  stranger.  He  would  go  to  Charing  Cross  station 
and  he  would  stand  patiently  in  front  of  the  bookstall,  but 
Eleanor  would  not  come  to  meet  him.  He  would  stand 
there,  dumb  and  uncomplaining,  and  no  one  of  the  hurrying 
crowd  of  people  would  turn  to  him  and  say,  "You're  in 
trouble.  I  'm  sorry ! ' '  They  would  neither  know  nor  care. 
They  would  be  too  busy  catching  trains.  He  would  stand 
there  for  an  hour,  for  two  hours  .  .  .  until  his  legs  began 
to  ache  with  the  pain  of  standing  in  one  place  for  a  long 
time  .  .  .  and  then,  when  it  was  apparent  that  waiting  was 
useless  and  he  had,  perhaps,  aroused  the  suspicions  of  po- 
licemen and  railway  porters  concerning  his  purpose  in 
loitering  thus  so  persistently  in  front  of  the  bookstall,  he 
would  go  home  in  his  misery  to  a  contemptuous  Hinde !  .  .  . 

ii 

And  while  these  bitter  thoughts  poured  through  his  mind, 
he  entered  Charing  Cross  station,  and  there  in  front  of  the 
bookstall  was  Eleanor  Moore.  The  bitter  thoughts  poured 
out  of  his  mind  in  a  rapid  flood.  He  felt  so  certain  that  his 
novel  would  be  published  that  he  could  almost  see  it  stacked 
on  the  bookstall  behind  Eleanor.  He  would  finish  the  trag- 
edy that  week  and  in  a  short  while  England  would  be  ac- 
claiming him  as  a  great  dramatist !  .  .  .  He  hurried  to- 
wards her  and  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  shyly  took  it. 

' '  Have  you  been  here  long  ? "  he  anxiously  asked. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I've  only  just  come!'* 

"Let's  go  and  have  some  tea,"  he  went  on. 

"  I  've  had  mine,  thanks !  .  .  . " 

"Well,  have  some  more.     I've  not  had  any!  ..." 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  265 

"I  don't  think  I  can,  thanks.  I've  really  come  to  say 
that  I  can't!  .  .  ." 

"There's  a  little  place  near  here,"  he  interrupted  hur- 
riedly, "where  they  give  you  lovely  home-made  bread.  I 
found  it  one  day  when  I  was  wandering  about.  We'll 
just  go  there  and  talk  about  whatever  you  want  to  say. 
Give  me  that  umbrella  of  yours!"  He  took  it  from  her 
hand  as  he  spoke.  ' '  This  is  the  way, ' '  he  said,  leading  her 
from  the  station.  As  they  crossed  the  road,  he  took  hold  of 
her  arm.  "These  streets  are  terribly  dangerous,"  he  said. 
"You  never  know  what  minute  you're  going  to  be  run 
over ! ' ' 

He  still  held  her  arm  when  they  were  safely  on  the  pave- 
ment, but  she  contrived  to  free  herself  without  making  a 
point  of  doing  so.  He  tried  to  bring  her  back  to  the  mood 
in  which  they  were  when  she  leaned  out  of  the  window  to 
listen  to  him  .  .  .  "like  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  he  told  him- 
self .  .  .  but  the  congestion  of  the  streets  made  such  inti- 
macies impossible.  They  were  constantly  being  separated 
by  the  hurrying  foot-passengers,  and  so  they  could  only 
speak  in  short,  dull  sentences.  He  brought  her  at  last  to 
the  quiet  tea-shop  where  he  ordered  tea  and  home-made 
bread  and  honey!  .  .  . 

"Eleanor,"  he  said,  when  the  waitress  had  taken  his  or- 
der and  had  departed  to  fulfil  it,  "it's  no  good  you  telling 
me  that  you  can't  go  out  with  me.  You  must,  my  dear. 
I  want  to  marry  you  !  .  .  . " 

"But  it's  absurd,"  she  expostulated.  "How  can  you 
possibly  talk  like  that  when  we're  such  strangers  to  each 
other!" 

"You're  no  stranger  to  me.  I've  loved  you  for  two 
months  now.  I've  hardly  ever  had  you  out  of  my  mind. 
I  was  nearly  demented  mad  when  I  lost  you.  I  used  to  go 
and  hang  about  that  office  of  yours  day  after  day  in  the 
hope  that  you'd  come  out!  .  .  .  And  if  ever  I  get  the 
chance,  I'll  break  that  liftman's  neck  for  him.  He  in- 


266  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

suited  me  the  day  I  asked  him  what  office  you  were  in.     He 
called  me  a  Nosey  Parker!" 

She  laughed  at  him.  "But  that  was  right,  wasn't  it?" 
she  said.  ' '  You  wouldn  't  have  him  give  information  about 
me  to  any  man  who  chooses  to  ask  for  it  ? " 

"He  should  have  known  that  I  was  all  right.  A  child 
could  have  seen  that  I  wasn't  just  playing  the  fool.  But 
you're  mebbe  right.  I'll  think  no  more  about  him.  Do 
you  know  what  happened  last  night  ? ' ' 

"No." 

He  told  her  of  his  relationship  with  the  Daily  Sensation. 

1 '  Then  you  Ve  lost  your  work  ? ' '  she  said. 

He  nodded  his  head,  and  they  did  not  speak  again  for  a 
few  moments.  The  waitress  had  brought  the  tea  and  bread 
and  honey,  and  they  waited  until  she  had  gone. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said. 

"It  doesn't  bother  me,"  he  replied.  "I  only  told  you  to 
show  you  how  much  I  love  you.  I'm  not  codding  you, 
Eleanor.  You  matter  so  much  to  me  that  I  'd  sacrifice  any 
job  in  the  world  for  you.  I  told  Clotworthy  that  ...  he's 
the  editor  of  the  paper  ...  I  told  him  I'd  rather  be  your 
husband  than  have  his  job  a  hundred  times  over.  And  so 
I  would.  Will  you  marry  me,  Eleanor?"  ' 

"I've  never  met  anyone  like  you  before!  ..." 

"I  daresay  you  haven't  but  I'm  not  asking  you  about 
that.  Will  you  marry  me  ?  We  can  fix  the  whole  thing  up 
in  no  time  at  all.  I  looked  it  up  in  a  book  this  morning,  and 
it  says  you  can  get  married  after  three  weeks'  notice.  If 
I  give  notice  the  morrow,  we  can  be  married  in  a  month 
from  to-day ! ' ' 

"Oh,  stop,  stop,"  she  said.  "Your  mind  is  running 
away  with  you.  I  spoke  to  you  for  the  first  time  last 
night!  .  .  ." 

"Beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "you  spoke  to  me  the  first 
day  we  met.  I  handed  you  your  letter !  .  .  . " 

"Oh/  but   that    doesn't    count.     That   was   nothing.     I 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  267 

really  only  spoke  to  you  last  night,  and  I  don't  know  you. 
I  'm  not  in  love  with  you  .  .  .  no,  please  be  sensible.  How 
can  I  possibly  love  you  when  I  don 't  know  you !  .  .  . " 

"I  love  you,  don't  I?"  he  demanded. 

"You  say  so!" 

"Well,  if  I  love  you,  you  can  love  me,  can't  you.  That's 
simple  enough ! ' ' 

She  passed  a  cup  of  tea  to  him.  "Do  all  Irishmen  be- 
have like  this  ? ' '  she  said. 

"I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care.  It's  the  way  I  behave. 
I  know  my  mind  queer  and  quick,  Eleanor,  and  when  I 
want  a  thing,  I  don't  need  to  go  humming  and  hahhing  to 
see  whether  I'm  sure  about  it.  I  want  you.  I  know  that 
for  a  fact,  and  there's  no  need  for  me  to  argue  about  it. 
I'll  not  want  you  any  more  this  day  twelvemonth  than  I 
want  you  now,  and  I  won't  want  you  any  less.  Will  you 
marry  me?" 

"No!" 

' '  How  long  will  it  be  before  you  will  marry  me,  then  * ' ' 

She  threw  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  comical  despair. 
"Really,"  she  said,  "you're  unbelievable.  You  seem  to 
think  that  I  must  want  to  marry  you  merely  because  you 
want  to  marry  me.  I  take  no  interest  whatever  in 
you!  .  .  ." 

"No,  but  you  will!" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "It  isn't  any  use  talking," 
she  said.  ' '  Your  mind  is  made  up  !  .  .  . " 

' '  It  is.  I  want  to  marry  you,  Eleanor,  and  I  'm  going  to 
marry  you.  I  have  a  lot  to  do  in  the  world  yet,  but  that 's 
the  first  thing  I've  got  to  do,  and  I  can't  do  anything  else 
till  I  have  done  it.  So  you  might  as  well  make  up  your 
mind  to  it,  and  save  a  lot  of  time  arguing  about  it  when  it's 
going  to  happen  in  the  end!" 

She  pushed  her  cup  away,  and  rose  from  her  seat.  "I'm 
going  home,"  she  said.  "This  conversation  makes  me  feel 
dizzy!" 


268  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"There's  no  hurry,"  he  exclaimed. 

She  spoke  coldly  and  deliberately.  "It's  not  a  question 
of  hurry, ' '  she  replied.  "  It 's  a  question  of  desire.  I  wish 
to  go  home.  Your  conversation  bores  and  annoys  me!" 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  treat  me  as  if  I  were  not  human  and  had 
no  desires  of  my  own.  I  'm  to  marry  you,  of  whom  I  know 
absolutely  nothing,  merely  because  you  want  me  to  marry 
you.  I  don't  know  whether  you  are  a  gentleman  or  .not. 
You  have  a  very  funny  accent !  .  .  . " 

"What's  wrong  with  my  accent?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  know.  It's  just  funny.  I've  never  heard  an 
accent  like  that  before,  and  so  I  can 't  tell  whether  you  're 
a  gentleman  or  not.  If  you  were  an  Englishman,  I  should 
know  at  once,  but  it's  different  with  Irish  people.  Your 
very  queer  manners  may  be  quite  the  thing  in  Ireland ! ' ' 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  her,  but  she  drew  back.  "Sit 
down,"  he  said.  "Just  for  a  minute  or  two  till  I  talk  to 
you.  I'll  let  you  go  then!" 

She  hesitated.  Then  she  did  as  he  asked  her.  "Very 
well!"  she  said  primly. 

"Listen  to  me,  Eleanor.  I  know  very  well  that  my  be- 
haviour is  strange  to  you.  It's  strange  to  me.  Till  last 
night  we'd  never  exchanged  a  dozen  words.  I  know  that. 
But  I  tell  you  this,  if  you  live  to  be  a  hundred  and  have 
boys  by  the  score,  you'll  never  have  a  man  that'll  love  you 
as  I  love  you.  I'm  in  earnest,  Eleanor.  I'm  not  codding 
you.  I'm  not  trying  to  humbug  you.  I  love  you.  I'm 
desperate  in  love  with  you!  ..." 

She  leant  forward  a  little,  moved  by  his  sincerity. 
"But,"  she  said,  and  then  stopped  as  if  unable  to  find 
words  adequate  to  her  meaning. 

"There's  no  buts  about  it,"  he  replied.  "I  love  you. 
I  don't  know  why  I  love  you,  and  I  don't  care  whether  I 
know  or  not.  All  I  know  is  that  the  minute  I  saw  you,  I 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  269 

loved  you.  I  wanted  to  see  you  again,  and  I  schemed  to 
make  you  talk  to  me !  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  and  very  silly  your  schemes  were.  Asking  me  if  I 
wanted  the  Graphic  back  again !  .  .  . " 

"You  remember  that,  do  you?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  it  was  so  obvious  and  so  stupid,"  she  answered. 

"Listen.  Tell  me  this.  Do  you  believe  me  when  I  tell 
you  I  love  you.  It's  no  use  me  telling  you  if  you  don't  be- 
lieve me ! ' ' 

"It's  so  difficult  to  say!  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  believe  me,"  he  insisted.  "Do  I  look  like  a 
man  that  would  tell  lies  to  a  girl'like  you.  Answer  me  that, 
now?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  gazed  very  straightly  at  him. 
"No,"  she  said,  "I  don't  think  you  would.  I  ...  I  think 
you  mean  what  you  say !  .  .  . " 

"I  do,  Eleanor.  As  true  as  God's  in  heaven,  I  do.  Will 
you  not  believe  me  ? " 

' '  But  I  don 't  love  you, ' '  she  burst  out. 

"Well,  mebbe  you  don't.  That's  understandable!"  he 
admitted. 

"And  the  whole  thing's  so  unusual,"  she  protested. 

"What  does  that  matter?  If  I  love  you  and  you  get  to 
love  me,  does  it  matter  about  anything  else?  Have  wit, 
woman,  have  wit ! ' ' 

"Don't  speak  to  me  like  that.  You're  very  abrupt,  Mr. 
MacDermott!  ..." 

"My  name's  John  to  you!  Now,  don't  flare  up  again. 
You  were  nice  and  amenable  a  minute  ago.  You  can  stop 
like  that.  You  and  me  are  going  to  marry  some  time. 
The  sooner  the  better.  All  I  want  you  to  do  now,  as  you 
say  you  don't  love  me,  is  to  give  me  a  chance  to  make  you 
love  me.  Come  out  with  me  for  a  walk  ...  or  we  '11  go  to 
a  theatre,  if  you  like !  Anyway,  let 's  be  friends.  I  don 't 
know  anybody  in  this  town  except  one  man,  and  him  and 


270  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

me 's  had  a  row  over  the  head  of  the  Daily  Sensation!  ..." 

' '  Yes, ' '  she  interrupted,  ' '  you  've  lost  your  work  through 
your  foolishness.  What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  It  isn  't 
very  easy  to  get  work. ' ' 

"  I  '11  get  it  all  right  if  I  want  it.  I  Ve  enough  money  to 
keep  me  easy  for  a  year  without  doing  a  hand's  turn,  and 
I  daresay  my  mother  and  my  Uncle  William  'ud  let  me  have 
more  if  I  wanted  it.  I  don't  want  to  be  on  a  paper  much. 
I  want  to  write  books !" 

Her  interest  was  restored.  "Tell  me  about  the  book 
you've  written.  Is  it  printed  yet?"  she  said. 

He  told  her  of  his  work,  and  of  the  Creams  and  of  Hinde. 
He  told  her,  too,  of  his  life  in  Ballyards. 

' '  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  "  he  said. 

"Devonshire,"  she  answered.  "My  father  was  rector 
of  a  village  there  until  he  died.  Then  mother  and  I  lived 
in  Exeter  until  she  died!  ..." 

' '  You  're  alone  then  ? "  he  asked. 

' '  Yes.  My  mother  had  an  annuity.  That  stopped  when 
she  died.  My  cousin  .  .  .  he 's  a  doctor  in  Exeter  .  .  .  set- 
tled up  her  affairs  for  me,  and  when  everything  was  ar- 
ranged, there  was  just  enough  money  to  pay  for  my  secre- 
tarial training  and  keep  me  for  a  year.  I  trained  for  six 
months  and  then  I  went  as  a  stop-gap  to  that  office  where 
you  saw  me.  I  'm  in  an  office  in  Long  Acre  now  —  a  motor 
place!" 

' '  And  have  you  no  friends  here — relations,  I  mean ! ' ' 

"Some  cousins.  I  don't  often  sec  them.  And  one  or 
two  people  who  knew  father  and  mother ! ' ' 

' '  You  're  really  alone  then  .  .  .  like  me  ?  "  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.     "Yes,  I  suppose  I  am!" 

He  leant  back  in  his  chair.  "It  seems  like  the  hand  of 
God,"  he  said,  "bringing  the  two  of  us  together!" 

"I  wish,"  she  said,  "you  wouldn't  talk  about  God  so 
much ! ' ' 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  271 

iii 

When  he  went  home  that  evening,  he  wrote  to  his  mother. 
Dear  Mother,  he  wrote,  I've  got  acquainted  with  a  girl  here 
called  Eleanor  Moore,  and  I've  made  up  my  mind  I'm  going 
to  marry  her.  She's  greatly  against  it  at  present,  but  I 
daresay  she'll  change  her  mind.  .  .  .  There  was  more  than 
that  in  the  letter,  but  it  is  not  necessary  to  repeat  the  re- 
mainder of  it  here.  He  also  wrote  to  Eleanor.  My  dearest, 
the  letter  ran,  I'm  looking  forward  to  meeting  you  again  to- 
morrow night  at  the  same  place.  I  know  you  said  you 
wouldn't  meet  me,  but  I'm  hoping  you'll  change  your  mind. 
I'll  be  waiting  for  you  anyway,  and  I'll  wait  till  seven 
o'clock  for  you.  Remember  that,  Eleanor!  If  you  don't 
turn  up,  it'll  be  hard  for  you  to  sit  in  comfort  and  you 
thinking  of  me  waiting  for  you.  You'll  never  have  the 
heart  to  refuse  me,  will  you?  We  can  have  our  tea  to- 
gether, and  then  go  for  a  walk  or  a  ride  on  a  'bus  till  din- 
ner-time, and  then,  if  you  like,  after  we've  had  something 
to  eat,  we'll  go  to  a  theatre.  Don't  disappoint  me,  for  I'm 
terribly  in  love  with  you.  Yours  only,  John  MacDermott. 
P.  8.  Don't  be  any  later  than  you  can  help.  I  hate  wait- 
ing about  for  people. 

iv 

She  came,  reluctantly  so  she  said,  to  the  bookstall  at 
Charing  Cross  station,  but  only  to  tell  him  that  she  could 
not  do  as  he  wished  her  to  do.  She  would  take  tea  with 
him  for  this  once,  but  it  was  useless  to  ask  her  to  go  for  a 
walk  with  him  or  for  a  'bus-ride  either,  and  she  certainly 
would  not  dine  with  him  nor  would  she  go  to  a  theatre.  Yet 
she  went  for  a  walk  on  the  Embankment  with  him,  and  they 
paced  up  and  down  so  long  that  she  saw  the  force  of  his 
argument  that  she  might  as  well  have  her  dinner  in  town  as 
go  back  to  her  club  where  the  food  would  be  tepid,  if  not 
actually  cold,  by  the  time  she  was  ready  to  eat  it.  She  need 


272  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

not  go  to  a  theatre  unless  she  wished  to  do,  but  he  could 
not  help  telling  her  that  a  great  deal  of  praise  had  been 
given  to  a  piece  called  Justice  by  a  man  called  Galsworthy. 
Mebbe  she  would  like  to  see  it.     She  was  not  to  imagine 
that  he  was  forcing  her  to  go  to  the  theatre.  .  .  .  And  so 
she  went,  and  they  sat  together  in  the  pit,  hearing  with  dif- 
ficulty because  of  the  horrible  acoustics  of  the  Duke  of 
York's  Theatre ;  and  when  the  play  was  over,  he  had  to  com- 
fort her,  for  the  fate  of  Falder  had  pained  her.     They 
climbed  on  to  the  top  of  a  'bus  at  Oxford  Circus  and  were 
carried  along  Oxford  Street  to  the  Bayswater  Road.     They 
sat  close  together  on  the  back  seat  of  the  'bus,  with  a  water- 
proofed apron  over  their  knees  because  the  night  was  damp 
and  chilly ;  and  as  the  'bus  drove  along  to  Marble  Arch  they 
did  not  speak.     The  rain  had  ceased  to  fall  before  they 
quitted  the  theatre,  but  the  streets  were  still  wet,  and  John 
found  himself  again  realising  their  beauty.     Trees  and  hills 
and  rivers  in  the  country  and  flowers  and  young  animals 
were  beautiful,  but  until  this  moment  he  had  never  known 
that  wet  pavements  and  wooden  or  macadamised  roads  were 
beautiful,  too,  when  the  lamps  were  lit  and  the  cold  grey 
gleam  of  electric  arcs  or  the  soft,  yellow,  reluctant  light  of 
gas  lamps  fell  upon  them.     He  could  see  a  long  wet  gleam 
stretching  far  ahead  of  him,  past  the  Marble  Arch  and  the 
darkness  of  Hyde  Park  and  Kensington  Gardens  into  a  re- 
gion of  which  he  knew  nothing ;  and  as  he  contemplated  that 
loveliness,  he  remembered  that  the  sight  of  tramlines  shin- 
ing at  night  had  unaccountably  moved  him  more  than  once. 
Once,  at  Ballyards,  he  had  stood  still  for  a  few  moments  to 
look  at  the  railway  track  glistening  in  the  sunshine,  and  he 
remembered  how  puzzled  he  had  been  when,  in  some  maga- 
zine, he  had  read  a  complaint  of  trains,  that  they  marred 
the  beauty  of  the  fields.     He  had  seen  trains  a  long  way  off, 
moving  towards  him  and  sending  up  puffs  of  thick  white 
smoke  that  trailed  into  thin  strips  of  blown  cloud,  and  had 
waited  until  the  silence  of  the  distant  engine,  broken  once 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  273 

or  twice  by  a  shrill,  sharp  whistle,  had  become  a  stupendous 
noise,  and  the  great  machine,  masterfully  hauling  its  car- 
riages behind  it,  had  galloped  past  him,  roaring  and  cheer- 
ing and  sending  the  debris  swirling  tempestuously  about  it ! 
.  .  .  The  sight  of  a  train  going  at  a  great  speed  had  always 
seemed  to  him  to  be  a  wonderful  thing,  but  now  he  realised 
that  it  was  more  than  wonderful,  that  it  was  actually  beau- 
tiful. .  .  .  He  turned  his  head  a  little  and  looked  past 
Eleanor  to  the  Park.  Little  vague  yellow  lights  flickered 
through  the  trees,  all  filmy  with  the  evening  mists,  and  he 
could  smell  the  rich  odour  of  wet  earth.  He  looked  at 
Eleanor  and  as  he  did  so,  they  both  smiled,  and  he  realised 
that  suddenly  affection  for  him  had  come  to  life  in  her. 
Beneath  the  protection  of  the  waterproofed  apron,  his  hand 
sought  for  hers  and  held  it.  Half-heartedly  she  tried  to 
withdraw  her  fingers  from  his  grasp,  but  he  would  not  let 
them  go,  and  so  she  did  not  persist  in  her  effort. 

"Look!"  he  said,  snuggling  closer  to  her. 

She  turned  towards  the  Park,  and  then,  after  a  little 
while,  turned  back  again.  "I've  always  loved  the  Park," 
she  said.  "It's  the  most  friendly  thing  in  London !" 

He  urged  his  love  for  her  again.  He  had  seen  affection 
for  him  in  her  eyes  and  had  felt  that  her  hand  was  not  being 
firmly  withdrawn  from  his. 

"No,  no,"  she  protested,  "don't  let's  talk  about  it  any 
more.  I  don't  love  you!  ..." 

' '  Well,  marry  me  anyhow ! ' ' 

Backwards  and  forwards  their  arguments  passed,  return- 
ing always  to  that  point:  But  I  don't  love  you!  Well, 
marry  me  anyhow!  .  .  . 

He  took  her  to  the  door  of  her  club,  and  for  a  while,  they 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  talking  of  the  play  they  had 
seen  that  evening  and  of  his  love  for  her. 

"It's  no  good,"  she  said,  trying  to  leave  him,  but  unable 
to  do  so  because  he  had  taken  hold  of  her  hand  and  would 
not  release  it. 


274  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Don't  go  in  yet,"  he  pleaded.  "Wait  a  wee  while 
longer ! ' ' 

' '  What 's  the  use  ? ' '  she  exclaimed. 

' '  You  '11  meet  me  again  to-morrow  ?  .  .  . " 

' '  I  can 't  meet  you  every  night ! ' ' 

' '  Why  not  ? "  he  demanded.     ' '  Tell  me  why  not ! " 

"Well  .  .  .  well,  because  I  can't.  It's  ridiculous. 
You  're  so  absurd.  You  keep  on  saying  the  same  thing  over 
and  over  .  .  .  and  it's  so  silly.  If  I  were  in  love  with 
you,  I  might  go  out  with  you  every  evening,  but !  .  .  . " 

"Do  you  like  me?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  ...  I  suppose  I  must  or  I  wouldn't 
go  out  with  you  at  all.  Really,  I'm  sorry  for  you !  .  .  ." 

"Well,  if  you're  sorry  for  me,  come  out  with  me  to- 
morrow night.  We  '11  have  our  dinner  in  town  again ! ' ' 

' ' No,  no !     Don't  you  understand,  Mr.  MacDermott !  .  . . " 

"John,  John,  John!"  he  said. 

' '  I  can 't  call  you  by  your  Christian  name !  .  .  . " 

"Why  not?     I  call  you  by  yours,  don't  I?" 

"Yes,  but  you  oughtn't  to.  I've  asked  you  not  to  call 
me  Eleanor,  but  it  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  good  asking  you 
to  do  anything  that  you  don't  want  to  do.  But  even  you 
must  understand  that  I  can't  let  you  take  me  out  every 
evening.  I  can't  let  you  pay  for  things!  ..." 

"Oh,"  he  said,  as  if  his  mind  were  illuminated.  "Is 
that  your  trouble  ?  We  can  soon  settle  that.  If  you  won 't 
let  me  pay .  for  things,  pay  for  them  yourself  .  .  .  only 
let  me  be  with  you  when  you  're  doing  it.  You  have  to  have 
food,  haven't  you?  Well,  so  have  I.  We  have  no  friends 
in  London  that  matter  to  us,  and  you  like  me  .  .  .  you  ad- 
mitted it  yourself  .  .  .  and  I  love  you  ...  so  why 
shouldn't  we  have  our  meals  together  even  if  you  do  pay 
for  your  own  food  ? ' ' 

"Of  course,  it  sounds  all  right  as  you  put  it,"  she  an- 
swered, "but  it  isn't  all  right.  I  can't  explain  things.  I 
don't  know  how  to  explain  them,  but  I  know  about  them 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  275 

all  the  same.  And  I  know  it  isn't  all  right.  You'll  begin 
to  think  I'm  in  love  with  you!  ..." 

"I  hope  you  will  be,  but  you'll  never  be  certain  unless 
you  see  me  fair  and  often.  You'll  come  again  to-morrow, 
won 't  you  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  good-night,"  she  said  impatiently,  suddenly 
breaking  from  him.  "You're  like  a  baby.  You  think 
you've  only  got  to  keep  on  asking  for  things  and  people 
will  get  tired  of  saying  'No!'  I  won't  go  out  with  you 
again.  You  make  me  feel  tired  and  cross !  .  .  . " 

"Well,  if  you  won't  meet  me  to-morrow  night,  will  you 
meet  me  the  next  night  ? ' ' 

"No!" 

' '  Then  will  you  stay  a  wee  while  longer  now  ? ' ' 

She  turned  on  the  top  step  and  looked  at  him,  and  he  saw 
with  joy  that  the  anger  had  gone  out  of  her  eyes  and  that 
she  was  smiling  at  him.  "You  really  are!  ..."  she  said, 
and  then  she  stopped.  He  waited  for  her  to  go  on,  but 
she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  said  only,  "I  don't  know! 
It  simply  isn  't  any  good  talking  to  you  ! ' ' 

He  went  up  the  steps  and  stood  beside  her  and  took  hold 
of  her  hand.  "Let  me  kiss  you,  Eleanor,"  he  said. 

She  started  away  from  him.     "No,  of  course  I  won't !" 

"Just  once!" 

"No!" 

"Well,  why  not?  You've  let  me  hold  your  hand. 
What's  the  difference?" 

"There's  every  difference.  Besides  I  didn't  let  you  hold 
my  hand.  You  took  it.  I  couldn't  prevent  you.  You're 
so  rough !  .  .  . " 

"No,  my  dear,  not  rough.  Not  really  rough.  Eleanor, 
just  once!  ..." 

"No,"  she  said  again,  this  time  speaking  so  loudly  that 
she  startled  herself.  "Please  go  away.  I  shan't  go  out 
with  you  again.  I  was  silly  to  go  out  with  you  at  all.  You 
don 't  know  how  to  behave !  . 


276  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

She  broke  off  abruptly  and  turned  to  open  the  door,  but 
she  had  difficulty  with  the  key  because  of  her  anger. 

"Let  me  open  it  for  you,"  he  said,  taking  the  key  from 
her  hand  and  inserting  it  in  the  lock.  "There !"  he  added, 
when  the  door  was  open. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  taking  the  key  from  him. 
"Good-night!" 

"Good-night,  Eleanor!"  he  replied  very  softly. 

They  did  not  move.  She  stood  with  her  hand  on  the 
door  and  he  stood  on  the  top  step  and  gazed  at  her. 

"Well — good-night,"  she  said  again. 

"Dear  Eleanor,"  he  replied.     "My  dear  Eleanor!" 

She  gulped  a  little.     ' '  Goo — good-night ! ' '  she  said. 

"I  love  you,  my  dear,  so  much.  I  shall  never  love  any- 
one as  I  love  you.  I  have  never  loved  anybody  else  but  you, 
never,  never !  .  .  .  Well,  I  thought  I  loved  someone  else,  but 
I  didn't!  .  .  ." 

"It's  no  good,"  she  began,  but  he  interrupted  her. 

"Well,  meet  me  again  to-morrow  night  at  the  same 
place!  .  .  ." 

"No,  I  won't!" 

"At  five  o'clock.  I'll  be  there  before  you  .  .  .  long  be- 
fore you.  You'll  meet  me,  won't  you?" 

"No." 

"Please,  Eleanor!" 

She  hesitated.  Then  she  said,  "Oh,  very  well,  then! 
But  it'll  be  the  last  time.  Good-night!" 

She  pushed  the  door  to,  but  before  she  could  close  it,  he 
whispered  ' '  Good-night,  my  darling ! "  to  her,  and  then  the 
door  was  between  them. 

He  waited  until  he  saw  the  flash  of  the  light  in  her  room, 
and  hoped  that  she  would  come  to  the  window ;  but  she  did 
not  do  so,  and  after  a  while  he  went  away. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  277 


Up  in  her  room,  she  was  staring  at  her  reflection  in  the 
mirror,  while  he  was  waiting  below  on  the  pavement  for 
her  to  come  to  the  window,  and  as  he  walked  away,  she  be- 
gan to  talk  to  the  angry,  baffled  girl  she  saw  before  her. 

"I  won't  marry  him,"  she  said.  "I  won't  marry  him. 
I  don't  love  him.  I  don't  even  like  him.  I  won't  marry 
him!  .  ." 


THE  SIXTH  CHAPTER 


Now  that  he  had  found  Eleanor  again,  he  was  able  to  set- 
tle down  to  work.  It  was  necessary,  he  told  himself,  that 
he  should  have  some  substantial  achievements  behind  him 
before  she  and  he  were  married,  particularly  as  he  had  lost 
his  employment  on  the  Daily  Sensation.  The  money  he  pos- 
sessed would  not  last  for  ever  and  he  could  hardly  hope  to 
sponge  on  his  Uncle  William  .  .  .  even  if  he  were  inclined 
to  do  so  ...  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  He  must  earn  money 
by  his  own  work  and  earn  it  quickly.  In  one  way,  it  was 
a  good  thing  that  he  had  lost  his  work  on  the  newspaper 
.  .  .  for  he  would  have  all  the  more  time  to  write  his  trag- 
edy. The  sketch  for  the  Creams  had  been  hurriedly  fin- 
ished and  posted  to  them  at  a  music-hall  in  Scotland  where 
they  were  playing,  so  Cream  wrote  in  acknowledging  the 
MS.,  to  "enormous  business.  Dolly  fetching  'em  every 
time!  >  .  ."  Two  pounds  per  week,  John  told  himself, 
would  pay  for  the  rent  and  some  of  the  food  until  he  was 
able  to  earn  large  sums  of  money  by  his  serious  plays.  The 
tragedy  would  establish  him.  It  would  not  make  a  for- 
tune for  him,  for  tragedians  did  not  make  fortunes,  but  it 
would  make  his  name  known,  and  Hinde  had  assured  him 
that  a  man  with  a  known  name  could  easily  earn  a  reason- 
able livelihood  as  an  occasional  contributor  to  the  newspa- 
pers. It  was  Hinde  who  had  proposed  the  subject  of  the 
tragedy  to  him.  For  years  he  had  dallied  with  the  notion 
of  writing  it  himself,  he  said,  but  now  he  knew  that  he 
would  never  write  anything  but  newspaper  stuff !  .  .  . 

278 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  279 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  St.  Patrick?"  he  said  to 
John. 

' '  A  wee  bit.     Not  much. ' ' 

' '  Well,  you  know  he  was  a  slave  before  he  was  a  saint  ? ' ' 
John  nodded  his  head.  "A  man  called  Milchu,"  Hinde 
continued,  "was  his  master.  An  Ulsterman.  He  was  the 
chieftain  of  a  clan  that  spread  over  Down  and  Antrim. 
Our  country.  He  had  Patrick  for  six  years,  and  then  he 
lost  him.  Patrick  escaped.  He  returned  to  Ireland  as  a 
missionary  and  sent  word  to  Milchu  that  he  had  come  to 
convert  him  to  Christianity,  and  Milchu  sent  word  back 
that  he'd  see  him  damned  first.  Milchu  wasn't  going  to 
be  converted  by  his  slave.  No  fear.  And  he  destroyed 
himself  .  .  .  set  fire  to  his  belongings  and  perished  in  his 
own  flames  rather  than  have  it  said  that  an  Ulster  chieftain 
was  converted  by  his  own  slave.  That 's  a  great  theme  for  a 
tragedy.  I  suppose  you  're  a  Christian,  Mac  ? ' ' 

' '  I  am.     I  'm  a  Presbyterian ! ' ' 

"Oh,  well,  you  won't  see  the  tragedy  of  it  as  well  as  I 
see  it.  Think  of  a  slave  trying  to  convert  a  free  man  to  a 
slave  religion.  There 's  a  tragedy  for  you !  .  .  . " 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  John. 

"No?  "Well,  it  doesn't  matter.  There's  a  theme  for  you 
to  write  about.  A  free  man  killing  himself  rather  than 
be  conquered  by  a  slave !  Of  course,  the  real  tragedy  is 
that  St.  Patrick  converted  the  rest  of  Ireland  to  Christian- 
ity! ...  Milchu  escaped:  the  others  surrendered.  It 
wasn't  the  English  that  beat  the  Irish,  Mac.  They  were 
beaten  before  ever  the  English  put  their  feet  on  Irish 
ground.  St.  Patrick  beat  them.  The  slave  made  slaves  of 
them!  .  .  ." 

"Is  that  what  you  call  Christians?"  John  indignantly 
demanded.  "Slaves?" 

Hinde  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "The  Irish  people  are 
the  most  Christian  people  on  earth,"  he  said.  "That's 
all!  .  ." 


280  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

They  put  the  subject  away  from  them,  because  they  felt 
that  if  they  did  not  do  so,  there  must  be  antagonism  be- 
tween them.  But  John  determined  that  he  would  write  a 
play  about  St.  Patrick  and  the  Pagan  Milchu.  Hinde  lent 
him  his  ticket  for  the  London  Library,  and  he  spent  his 
mornings  reading  biographies  of  the  saint :  Todd  and  Whit- 
ley,  Stokes  and  Zimrner  and  Professor  J.  B.  Bury ;  and  ac- 
counts of  the  ancient  Irish  church.  Slowly  there  came  into 
his  mind  a  picture  of  the  saint  that  was  not  very  like  the 
picture  he  had  known  before  and  was  very  different  from 
Hinde 's  conception  of  the  relationship  between  Milchu  and 
St.  Patrick.  To  him,  the  wonderful  thing  was  that  the 
slave  had  triumphed  over  his  owner.  Milchu,  in  his  con- 
ception, had  not  been  sufficiently  manly  to  stand  before 
Patrick  and  contend  with  him  and  to  own  himself  the  in- 
ferior of  the  two.  He  had  run  away  from  St.  Patrick! 
With  that  conception  of  the  two  men  in  his  mind,  he  be- 
gan to  write  his  play. 

"You're  wrong,"  said  Hinde.  "Milchu  was  a  gentle- 
man and  Patrick  was  a  slave !  .  .  . " 

"The  son  of  a  magistrate!"  John  indignantly  inter- 
rupted. 

"A  lawyer's  son!"  Hinde  sneered.  "And  Milchu,  being 
a  gentleman,  would  not  be  governed  by  a  slave.  Think  of 
an  Irish  gentleman  being  governed  by  an  Irish  peasant!" 
There  was  a  wry  look  on  his  face.  "And  a  little  common 
Irish  priest  to  govern  a  little  common  Irish  peasant!  .  .  . 
They  won 't  get  gentlemen  to  live  in  a  land  like  that ! ' ' 

"I'm  a  peasant,"  said  John.  "There's  not  much  dif- 
ference between  a  shopkeeper  and  a  peasant !  .  .  . " 

"I'm  talking  of  minds,"  said  Hinde,  "not  of  positions. 
I  believe  in  making  peasants  comfortable  and  secure,  but 
I  believe  also  in  keeping  them  in  their  place.  I'm  one  of 
the  world's  Milchus,  Mac.  I'd  rather  set  fire  to  myself 
than  submit  to  my  inferiors ! ' ' 

John  sat  in  his  chair  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  trying 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  281 

to  understand  Hinde's  argument.  "Then  why  do  you 
write  for  papers  like  the  Daily  Sensation?"  he  asked  at 
last. 

Hinde  winced.  "I  suppose  because  I'm  not  enough  of  a 
Milchu,"  he  replied. 

ii 

John  had  met  Eleanor  at  their  customary  trysting-place, 
in  front  of  the  bookstall  at  Charing  Cross  Road,  and  they 
had  walked  along  the  Embankment  towards  Blackfriars. 
The  theme  of  his  tragedy  was  very  present  in  his  mind  and 
he  told  the  story  to  Eleanor  as  they  walked  along  the  side  of 
the  river  in  the  glowing  dusk.  They  stood  for  a  while, 
with  their  elbows  resting  on  the  stone  balustrade,  and  looked 
down  on  the  dark  tide  beneath  them.  The  great,  grim 
arches  of  Waterloo  Bridge,  made  melancholy  by  the  lemon- 
coloured  light  of  the  lamps  which  surmounted  them,  cast 
big,  black  shadows  on  the  water.  They  could  hear  little 
lapping  waves  splashing  against  the  pillars,  and  presently 
a  tug  went  swiftly  down  to  the  Pool.  Neither  of  them 
spoke.  Behind  them  the  tramcars  went  whirring  by,  and 
once  when  John  looked  round,  he  felt  as  if  he  must  cry  be- 
cause of  the  beauty  of  these  swift  caravans  of  light,  gliding 
easily  through  the  misty  darkness  of  a  London  night.  He 
had  turned  quickly  again  to  contemplate  the  river,  and  as 
he  did  so,  Eleanor  stirred  a  little,  moving  more  closely  to 
him,  demanding,  so  it  seemed,  his  comfort  and  protection, 
and  instantly  he  put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  tightly 
to  him.  He  did  not  care  whether  anyone  saw  them  or  not. 
It  was  sufficient  for  him  that  in  her  apprehension  she  had 
turned  to  him.  Both  his  arms  were  about  her,  and  his  lips 
were  on  her  lips.  "Dear  Eleanor,"  he  said.  .  .  . 

Then  she  released  herself  from  his  embrace.  "I  felt 
frightened,"  she  said.  " I  don 't  know  why.  It's  so  lovely 
to-night  .  .  .  and  yet  I  felt  frightened!" 


282  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

''Will  we  go?"  he  asked. 

"Yes!" 

He  put  his  arm  in  hers  and  she  did  not  resist  him. 
"You're  my  sweetheart  now,  aren't  you,  Eleanor?"  he 
whispered  to  her,  as  they  walked  along  towards  Westmin- 
ster. 

She  did  not  answer. 

' '  My  dear  sweetheart, ' '  he  went  on,  ' '  and  presently  you  '11 
be  my  dear  wife,  and  we'll  have  a  little  house  somewhere, 
and  we'll  love  each  other  for  ever  and  ever.  Won't  we?" 
He  pressed  her  arm  in  his.  "Won't  we,  Eleanor?  Every 
night  when  I  come  home  from  work  and  we  have  had  our 
supper,  we  '11  go  for  a  walk  like  this,  and  I  '11  talk  and  you  '11 
listen,  and  we'll  be  very  happy,  and  we'll  never  be  lonely 
again.  Oh,  I  pity  the  poor  men  who  don't  know  you, 
Eleanor!  ..." 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  but  still  she  did  not  speak. 

' '  I  couldn  't  have  believed  I  should  be  so  happy  as  I  am, ' ' 
he  continued.  "I  wonder  if  it's  right  for  one  woman  to 
have  so  much  power  over  a  man  ...  to  be  able  to  make 
him  happy  or  miserable  just  as  the  fancy  takes  her  .  .  .  but 
I  don't  care  whether  it's  right  or  wrong.  I'm  content  so 
long  as  I  have  you.  We  're  going  to  be  married,  aren  't  we, 
Eleanor?  Aren't  we?" 

He  stopped  and  turned  her  round  so  that  they  were  fac- 
ing each  other. 

"Aren't  we,  Eleanor?"  he  repeated. 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  that,"  she  murmured.  "I'm  so 
happy  to-night,  and  I  don't  want  to  think  about  what's 
past  or  what 's  to  come.  I  only  want  to  be  happy  now ! ' ' 

"With  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied. 

"Then  you  do  love  me?  ..." 

"I  don't  know.  I  can't  tell.  But  I'm  frightfully 
happy.  I  expect  I  shall  feel  that  I've  made  a  fool  of  my- 
self ...  in  the  morning,  but  just  now  I  don 't  care  whether 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  283 

I'm  fool  or  not.     I'm  like  you.     I'm  content.     Let's  go  on 
walking ! ' ' 

They  turned  back  at  Boadicea's  statue,  and  when  they 
were  in  the  shadows  again,  he  took  his  arm  from  hers  and 
put  it  about  her  waist.  "Let's  pretend  there's  nobody 
else  here  but  us, ' '  he  said. 

iii 

They  dined  in  Soho,  and  when  they  had  finished  their 
meal,  they  walked  to  Oxford  Circus  and  once  more  climbed 
to  the  top  of  a  'bus  that  would  take  them  along  the  Bays- 
water  Road. 

"You  must  like  me,  Eleanor,"  he  said  to  her,  as  they  sat 
huddled  together  on  the  back  seat,  "or  you  wouldn't  come 
out  with  me  as  you  do ! " 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I  think  I  do  like  you.  It  seems 
odd  that  I  should  like  you,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  that 
I  shouldn't  ever  like  you.  But  I  do.  You're  very  like- 
able, really.  It's  because  you're  so  silly,  I  suppose.  And 
so  persistent ! ' ' 

"Then  why  can't  we  get  married,  my  dear?  Isn't  it 
sickening  for  you  to  be  living  in  that  club  and  me  to  be 
living  at  Brixton,  when  we  might  be  living  in  our  own 
home?  I  hate  this  beastly  separation  every  night.  Let's 
get  married,  Eleanor!" 

"I  suppose  we  will  in  the  end,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't 
feel  like  getting  married  to  you.  After  all,  John!  .  .  ." 
She  called  him  by  his  Christian  name  now.  "After  all, 
John,  if  I  were  to  marry  you  now,  when  we  know  so  little 
of  each  other,  it  would  be  very  poor  fun  for  me,  if  you  dis- 
covered after  we  were  married  that  you  did  not  care  for 
me  as  much  as  you  imagined.  And  suppose  I  never  fell  in 
love  with  you  ? ' ' 

' '  Yes, ' '  he  said  gloomily. 

"How  awful!" 


284,  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

' '  But  I  'd  have  you.  I  'd  have  the  comfort  of  being  your 
husband  and  of  having  you  for  my  wife ! ' ' 

"It  mightn't  be  a  comfort.  Oh,  no,  it's  too  risky, 
John.  We  must  wait.  We  must  know  more  of  each 
other!  .  .  ." 

"Will  you  get  engaged  to  me  then?"  he  suggested. 

"But  that's  a  promise.  No.  Let's  just  go  on  as  we  are 
now,  being  friends  and  meeting  sometimes ! ' ' 

"Supposing  we  were  engaged  without  anybody  knowing 
about  it  ? "  he  said.  ' '  Would  that  do  ? " 

"I  don't  want  either  of  us  to  be  bound  .  .  .  not  yet. 
Oh,  not  yet.  Do  be  sensible,  John ! ' ' 

"I  am  sensible.  I  know  that  I  want  to  marry  you. 
That's  sensible,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is,"  she  replied,  laughing. 

"Well,  isn't  it  sensible  to  want  to  be  sensible  as  soon 
as  possible  ?  You  needn  't  laugh.  I  mean  it.  It 's  just  fool- 
ishness to  be  going  on  like  this.  I  'm  as  sensible  as  anybody, 
and  I  can 't  see  any  sense  in  our  not  marrying  at  once.  Get 
engaged  to  me  for  a  while  anyway !" 

"But  what  would  be  the  good  of  that?" 

' '  All  the  good  in  the  world.  I  just  want  the  comfort  of 
knowing  there 's  a  chance  of  you  marrying  me ! " 

"It  seems  so  unsatisfactory  to  me  ...  and  so  risky!" 
she  protested. 

"I'm  willing  to  take  the  risk.  I'll  wait  as  long  as  you 
like." 

"I'll  think  about  it.  But  if  I  do  get  engaged  to  you, 
we  won 't  get  married  for  a  long  time ! ' ' 

"How  long?" 

"Oh,  a  long  time.    A  very  long  time." 

' '  What  do  you  mean  ?     Six  months  ? ' ' 

"No,  years.     Oh,  five  years,  perhaps!" 

"My  God  Almighty!"  he  said.  "Do  you  know  what 
you're  saying?  Five  years?  We  might  all  be  dead  and 
buried  long  before  then.  What  age  will  I  be  in  five  years 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  285 

time.  Oh,  wheesht  with  you,  Eleanor,  and  don't  be  talking 
such  balderdash.  Five  years!  Holy  0!" 

' '  What  does  '  Holy  0 ! '  mean  ? ' '  she  demanded. 

"I  don't  know.  It's  just  a  thing  to  say  when  you  can't 
think  of  anything  else.  Five  years !  Five  minutes  is  more 
like  it!" 

"We're  too  young  to  be  married  yet,  and  in  five  years' 
time  we'll  know  each  other  much  better!" 

"I  should  think  so,  too,"  he  said.  "It's  a  lifetime, 
woman  !  Whatever  put  that  idea  into  your  head  ? ' ' 

"If  I  get  engaged  to  you  at  all,"  she  replied,  "and  I'm 
not  sure  that  I  will,  it'll  be  for  five  years  or  not  at  all. 
You  may  be  willing  to  take  risks,  but  I'm  not.  Risks  are 
all  right  for  men  .  .  .  they  can  afford  to  take  them  .  .  . 
but  women  can't.  If  you  don't  agree  to  that,  you'll  have 
to  give  up  the  idea  altogether ! ' ' 

"Then  you'll  get  engaged  to  me?" 

"No,  I  didn't  say  that.  I  said  that  if  I  got  engaged  to 
you  at  all,  it  would  be  for  five  years.  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
shall  get  engaged  to  you.  I  don't  think  I  really  like  you. 
I  think  I'd  just  get  tired  of  saying  'No'  to  you!  .  .  ." 
She  could  see  that  his  face  had  become  glum,  and  she  hur- 
riedly reassured  him.  "Yes,  I  do  like  you!  I  like  you 
quite  well  .  .  .  but  I'm  not  going  to  marry  you  ...  if  I 
ever  marry  you  .  .  .  till  I  'm  sure  about  you ! ' ' 

They  descended  from  the  'bus  and  walked  towards  her 
club. 

"Anyway,"  he  said,  "I  consider  myself  engaged  to  you. 
And  I  '11  buy  you  a  ring  the  morrow  morning ! ' ' 

"Indeed,  you  won't,"  she  said. 

* '  Indeed,  I  will, ' '  he  replied.  "  I  '11  have  it  handy  for  the 
time  you  agree  to  have  me!" 

"You  won't  be  able  to  get  one  until  you  know  the  size, 
and  I  won 't  tell  you  that !  .  .  . " 

They  wrangled  on  the  doorstep  until  it  was  late,  but  she 
would  not  yield  to  him.  He  could  consider  himself  en- 


286  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

gaged  to  her  if  he  liked  .  .  .  she  could  not  prevent  him 
from  considering  anything  he  chose  to  consider  .  .  .  but 
she  would  not  consider  herself  engaged  to  him  nor  would 
she  wear  a  ring  until  she  was  sure  of  her  feelings. 

He  kissed  her  when  they  parted,  and  she  did  not  resist 
him.  It  was  useless  to  try  to  resist  an  accomplished  thing. 
His  childlike  insistence  both  attracted  and  irritated  her. 
She  felt  drawn  to  him  because  his  mind  seemed  to  be  so 
completely  centred  upon  her,  and  repelled  by  him  because 
his  own  wishes  appeared  to  be  the  only  considerations  he 
had.  She  could  not  decide  whether  the  love  he  had  for  her 
.  .  .  and  she  believed  that  he  loved  her  .  .  .  was  complete 
devotion  or  complete  selfishness.  Love  at  first  sight  was  a 
perfectly  credible,  though  unusual  thing.  It  was  possible 
that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  .  .  .  her  vanity  was 
pleased  by  the  thought  that  he  had  done  so  ...  but  she 
certainly  had  not  fallen  in  love  with  him  either  at  first  or 
at  second  sight.  She  was  not  in  love  with  him  now.  She 
felt  certain  of  that.  He  was  likeable  and  kind  and  a  very 
comforting  person,  and  there  was  much  more  pleasure  to  be 
had  from  a  walk  with  him  than  from  an  evening  spent  in 
the  club !  .  .  .  Ugh,  that  club,  that  dreadful  conglomera- 
tion of  isolated  women !  Oh,  oh,  oh !  She  gave  little  shud- 
ders as  she  reflected  on  her  club-mates.  Most  of  them  were 
girls  like  herself,  working  as  secretaries  either  in  offices  or 
in  other  places  ...  to  medical  men  or  writers  .  .  .  and, 
like  her,  they  had  few  friends  in  London.  Their  homes 
were  in  the  country.  Among  them  were  a  number  of  aim- 
less spinsters,  subsisting  sparely  on  private  means  .  .  . 
poor,  wilting  women  without  occupation  or  interest.  They 
were  of  an  earlier  generation  than  Eleanor,  the  generation 
which  was  too  genteel  to  work  for  its  living,  and  they  had 
survived  their  friends  and  their  families  and  were  left  high 
and  dry,  without  any  obvious  excuse  for  existing,  among 
young  women  who  were  profoundly  contemptuous  of  a 
woman  who  could  not  earn  a  living  for  herself.  They  sat 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  287 

about  in  the  drawing-room  and  sizzled!  They  knew  ex- 
actly at  what  hour  this  girl  came  in  on  Monday  night, 
and  at  exactly  what  hour  the  other  girl  came  in  on  Tuesday 
night.  They  whispered  things  to  each  other!  They 
thought  it  was  very  peculiar  behaviour  for  a  girl  to  come 
back  to  the  club  alone  with  a  man  at  twelve  o'clock  .  .  . 
"midnight,  my  dear!"  they  would  say,  as  if  "midnight" 
had  a  more  terrible  sound  than  twelve  o'clock  .  .  .  and 
they  were  certain  that  Miss  Dilldall's  parents  should  be  in- 
formed of  the  fact  that  on  Saturday  evening  she  went  off 
in  a  taxi-cab  with  a  man  who  was  wearing  dress-clothes  and 
a  gibus-hat.  Miss  Dilldall  publicly  boasted  of  the  fact  that 
she  had  smoked  a  cigarette  in  a  restaurant  in  Soho !  .  .  . 

Ugh !  Even  if  John  were  selfish,  he  was  preferable  to 
these  drab  women,  these  pitiful  females  herded  together. 
Women  in  the  mass  were  very  displeasing  to  look  at,  and 
they  frightened  you.  They  turned  down  the  corners  of 
their  mouths  and  looked  coldly  and  condemningly  at  you. 
It  was  extraordinary  how  unanimous  the  girls  were  in  their 
dislike  of  working  under  women.  The  woman  in  author- 
ity was  more  hateful  to  women  even  than  to  men.  Eleanor 
had  done  some  work  for  an  advanced  woman,  an  eminent 
suffragette,  who  had  crept  about  the  house  in  rubber-soled 
shoes  so  that  she  might  come  unexpectedly  into  the  room 
where  Eleanor  was  working  and  assure  herself  that  she  was 
getting  value  for  her  money !  .  .  .  She  was  always  spying 
and  sneaking  round !  What  an  experience  that  had  been ! 
How  impossible  it  had  been  to  work  with  that  woman !  A 
girl  in  the  club  had  worked  for  a  royal  princess  .  .  .  not 
at  all  an  advanced  woman  .  .  .  and  she,  too,  had  had  to  seek 
for  employment  under  a  man.  The  princess  was  a  foolish, 
spoilt,  utterly  incompetent  person  who  did  not  know  her 
own  mind  for  two  consecutive  hours.  She  sneaked  around, 
too,  and  spied!  .  .  .  All  these  women  in  authority  seemed 
to  spend  half  their  day  peering  through  keyholes.  .  .  . 


288  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

Perhaps  it  was  because  the  club  was  such  a  dingy,  cheer- 
less hole  that  she  liked  to  go  out  with  John.  The  food  was 
meagre  and  poor  in  quality  and  vilely  cooked.  Somehow, 
women  living  together  seemed  unable  to  feed  themselves  de- 
cently. Miss  Dilldall,  gay  little  woman  of  the  world,  had 
solemnly  proposed  that  a  man  should  be  hired  to  growse 
about  the  meals.  "We'll  never  get  good  food  in  this 
damned  compound, ' '  she  said,  ' '  until  we  get  some  men  into 
it.  Bringing  them  as  guests  isn't  any  good.  They're  too 
polite  to  their  hostesses  to  say  anything,  but  I'm  sure  that 
every  man  who  has  a  meal  in  this  place  goes  away  convinced 
that  the  food  we  are  content  to  eat  is  a  strong  argument 
against  votes  for  women !  And  so  it  is.  "What  a  hole ! ' ' 

"That's  really  why  I  like  going  out  with  him,"  Eleanor 
confided  to  her  reflection  in  the  looking-glass  as  she  brushed 
her  hair.  "It's  really  to  escape  from  this  dreary  club! 
But  I  can't  marry  him  for  that  reason.  It  wouldn't  be  fair 
to  him.  It  would  be  much  less  fair  to  me.  Of  course,  I 
like  him !  .  .  .  Oh,  no !  No,  no !  .  .  . " 

iv 

Lizzie  was  in  the  hall  when  John  let  himself  into  the  house 
that  night. 

"Hilloa,"  he  said,  "not  gone  to  bed  yet?" 

"I  never  'ave  time  to  go  to  bed,"  she  said.  "  'Ow  can 
I  get  any  sleep  when  I  'ave  to  look  after  men!  You  an'  Mr. 
'Inde ! ' '  She  came  nearer  to  him.  ' '  You  '11  get  a  bit  of  a 
surprise  when  you  go  upstairs, ' '  she  said  very  knowingly. 

"Me!" 

She  nodded  her  head  and  giggled. 

"What  sort  of  a  surprise?"  he  demanded. 

"You'll  see  when  you  get  upstairs.  It's  been  waitin' 
for  you  'ere  since  seven  o  'clock !  .  .  . " 

' '  Seven  o  'clock !    What  is  it  ?     A  parcel  ? ' ' 

Lizzie  could  not  control  her  laughter  when  he  said  "par- 
cel. "  "  Ow ! ' '  she  giggled.  ' '  Ow,  dear,  ow,  dear !  A  par- 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  289 

eel !  Ow,  yes,  it 's  a  parcel  all  right !  You  '11  see  when  you 
get  up!  .  .  ." 

He  began  to  mount  the  stairs.  "You're  an  awful  fool, 
Lizzie,"  he  said  crossly,  leaning  over  the  banisters. 

"Losin'  your  temper,  eih?"  she  replied,  bolting  the 
street  door. 

He  hurried  up  to  the  sitting-room  and  as  he  climbed  the 
flight  of  stairs  that  led  directly  to  it,  Hinde  called  out  to 
him,  "Is  that  you,  Mac?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

Hinde  came  to  the  door  and  opened  it  fully.  "There's 
someone  here  to  see  you, ' '  he  said. 

"To  see  me!    At  this  hour?" 

He  entered  the  room  as  he  spoke.  His  mother  was  sit- 
ting in  front  of  the  fire. 

' '  Mother ! "  he  exclaimed,  remembering  just  in  time  not  to 
say  "Ma!"  which  would  have  sounded  very  childish  in 
front  of  Hinde. 

"This  is  a  nice  hour  of  the  night  to  be  coming  home," 
she  said,  trying  to  speak  severely,  but  she  could  not  main- 
tain the  severity  in  her  voice,  for  his  arms  were  about  her 
and  she  was  hugging  him. 

' '  You  never  told  me  you  were  coming, ' '  he  said.  ' '  What 
brought  you  over  ? ' ' 

"I've  come  to  see  this  girl  you've  got  hold  of,"  she  an- 
swered. 


"But  why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  coming?"  he 
asked.  "  I  'd  have  met  you  at  the  station ! ' ' 

She  ignored  his  question.  "This  is  a  terrible  town,"  she 
said.  "Mr.  Hinde  says  there's  near  twice  as  many  people 
in  this  place  as  there  is  in  the  whole  of  Ireland.  How  in  the 
earthly  world  do  they  manage  to  get  about  their  business?" 

"Oh,  quite  easily,"  he  said  nonchalantly,  and  as  he  spoke 
he  realised  that  he  had  come  to  be  a  Londoner. 


290  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"When  I  got  out  at  the  station,"  Mrs.  MacDennott  con- 
tinued, "I  called  a  porter  and  said  to  him,  'Just  put  that 
bag  on  your  shoulder  and  carry  it  for  me ! '  '  Where  to, 
ma'am?'  says  he,  and  then  I  gave  him  your  address.  I 
thought  the  man  'ud  drop  down  dead.  'Is  it  far?'  says  I. 
'  Far ! '  says  he.  '  It 's  miles ! '  By  all  I  can  make  out,  John, 
you  live  as  far  from  the  station  as  Millreagh  is  from  Bally  - 
ards.  I  had  to  come  here  in  one  of  them  things  that  runs 
without  horses  .  .  .  what  do  you  call  them  ? ' ' 

"Taxi-cabs!" 

"That's  the  name.  It's  a  demented  mad  place  this. 
Such  traffic !  Worse  nor  Belfast  on  the  fair-day ! ' ' 

"  It 's  like  that  every  day,  Mrs.  MacDermott ! ' '  Hinde  in- 
terjected. 

"What  bothers  me,"  she  went  on,  "is  how  ever  you  get 
to  know  your  neighbours ! ' ' 

"We  don't  get  to  know  them,"  Hinde  replied.  "I've 
lived  in  this  house  for  several  years,  but  I  don't  know  the 
names  of  the  people  on  either  side  of  it ! " 

"My  God,"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott,  "what  sort  of  peo- 
ple are  you  at  all  ?  Are  you  all  fell  out  with  each  other  ? ' ' 

' '  No.     We  're  just  not  interested ! ' ' 

"I  wouldn't  live  in  this  place  for  the  wide  world,"  she 
exclaimed.  ' '  And  you, ' '  she  continued  turning  to  her  son, 
"could  come  here  where  you  know  nobody  from  a  place 
where  you  knew  everybody.  The  world's  queer!  What 
was  that  water  I  passed  on  the  way  out !  .  .  . " 

"Water!" 

"Aye.     We  went  over  it  on  a  bridge!" 

"Oh,  the  river!" 

"What  river?"  she  said. 

"Why,  the  Thames,  of  course!" 

"Is  that  what  you  call  it?" 

Hinde  smiled  at  John.  ' '  So  you  've  learned  to  call  it  the 
river,  have  you  ?  Mrs.  Hinde,  in  this  town  we  always  talk 
as  if  there  were  only  one  river  in  the  world.  A  Londoner 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  291 

always  says  he's  going  up  the  river  or  down  the  river  or  on 
the  river.  He  always  speaks  of  it  as  the  river.  He  never 
speaks  of  it  as  the  Thames.  In  Belfast,  you  speak  of  the 
Lagan  .  .  .  never  of  the  river.  The  same  in  Dublin.  They 
speak  of  the  Liffey  .  .  .  never  of  the  river.  John's  be- 
come a  Londoner.  He  knows  the  proper  way  to  speak  of 
the  Thames!" 

' '  London  seems  to  be  full  of  very  conceited  and  unneigh- 
bourly  people, ' '  Mrs.  MacDermott  said. 

John  demanded  information  of  his  mother.  How  were 
Uncle  William  and  Mr.  Cairnduff  and  the  minister  and  Wil- 
lie Logan?  .  .  . 

"His  wife's  got  a  child,"  Mrs.  MacDermott  replied  se- 
verely. 

"A  boy  or  a  girl?" 

"A  boy,  and  the  spit  of  his  father,  God  help  him.  Thon 
lad  Logan '11  come  to  no  good.  Aggie's  courting  hard. 
Some  fellow  from  Belfast  that  travels  in  drapery.  She  told 
me  to  remember  her  to  you ! ' ' 

"Thank  you,  mother!" 

Hinde  rose  to  leave  them.  "You'll  have  a  lot  to  say  to 
each  other,  and  I'm  tired,"  he  explained,  as  he  went  off  to 
bed. 

"I  like  that  man,"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott  when  he  had 
gone.  "And  now  tell  me  about  this  girl  you've  got.  Are 
you  in  earnest?" 

"Yes,  ma!"  John  answered,  using  the  word  "ma,"  now 
that  lie  was  alone  with  his  mother. 

"Will  she  have  you?" 

"I  hope  so.  She  hasn't  said  definitely  yet,  but  I  think 
she  will!" 

"Who  is  she?  Moore  you  said  her  name  was.  That's 
an  Irish  name!" 

"But  she's  not  Irish.  She's  English.  Her  father  was 
a  clergyman,  but  he's  dead.  So  is  her  mother.  She  has 
hardly  any  friends ! ' ' 


292  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Does  she  keep  herself?" 

"Yes,  ma.  She  works  in  a  motor-place  ...  in  the  of- 
fice, typing  letters.  She's  an  awful  nice  girl,  ma!  I'm 
just  doting  on  her,  so  I  am ! ' ' 

"Do  you  like  her  better  nor  that  Belfast  girl  that  mar- 
ried the  peeler?  ..." 

"Och,  that  one,"  John  laughed.  "I  never  think  of  her 
now  .  .  .  never  for  a  minute.  Eleanor's  the  one  I  think 
about!" 

' '  Are  you  sure  of  yourself !  .  .  . " 

"As  sure  as  God's  in  heaven,  ma!" 

' '  Oh,  yes,  we  know  all  about  that,  but  are  you  sure  you  're 
sure?  You  were  queerly  set  on  that  Belfast  girl,  you 
know!" 

He  pledged  himself  as  convincingly  as  he  could  to 
Eleanor,  and  told  his  mother  that  he  could  never  be  happy 
without  her. 

"And  how  do  you  propose  to  keep  her?"  she  said,  when 
he  had  finished. 

"Work  for  her,  of  course ! ' ' 

' '  How  much  have  you  earned  since  you  came  here  ? ' ' 

"Nothing!" 

"And  you've  no  work  foment  you?" 

"No,  not  at  the  minute.     I  had  a  job,  but  I  lost  it !" 

He  gave  an  account  of  his  relationship  with  the  Daily 
Sensation. 

"You'll  not  be  able  to  buy  much  with  that  amount  of 
work,"  she  interrupted. 

He  told  her  of  the  sketch  for  the  Creams  and  of  the 
tragedy  of  St.  Patrick. 

' '  What 's  the  use  of  writing  about  him, ' '  she  said.  ' '  Sure, 
he 's  been  dead  this  long  while  back ! ' ' 

He  did  not  attempt  to  make  her  understand.  "And 
then  there 's  the  novel  I  wrote  when  I  was  at  home, ' '  he  con- 
cluded. 

' '  But  you  've  heard  nothing  of  it  yet.     As  far  as  I  can  see 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  293 

you've  done  little  here  that  you  couldn't  have  done  at 
home!" 

"Oh,  yes  I  have.  I've  learned  a  great  deal  more  than  I 
could  ever  have  learned  in  Ballyards.  And  I've  met 
Eleanor!" 

"H'm!"  she  said,  rising  from  her  seat.  ''I'm  going  to 
my  bed  now.  That  girl  Lizzie  seems  a  good-natured  sort 
of  a  soul.  Where  does  Eleanor  live  ?" 

' '  Oh,  a  long  way  from  here !  .  .  . " 

"Give  me  her  address,  will  you?" 

"Yes,  ma,  but  why?" 

' '  I  'm  going  to  see  her  the  morrow ! ' ' 

He  had  to  explain  that  Eleanor  could  not  be  seen  in  the 
day-time  because  of  her  employment,  and  he  proposed  that 
his  mother  should  go  with  him  in  the  evening  to  meet  her 
at  the  bookstall  at  Charing  Cross  station. 

' '  Very  well, ' '  she  said  as  she  kissed  him,  ' '  Good-night ! ' ' 


THE  SEVENTH  CHAPTER 


MRS.  MACDERMOTT  had  remained  in  London  for  a  week. 
John,  eager  to  show  the  sights  to  her,  had  tried  to  persuade 
her  to  stay  for  a  longer  period,  but  she  was  obstinate  in 
her  determination  to  return  to  Ireland  at  the  end  of  the 
week.  "I  don't  like  the  place,"  she  said;  "it's  not  neigh- 
bourly!" She  repeated  this  objection  so  frequently  that 
John  began  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  to  understand  some- 
thing of  his  mother's  point  of  view.  He  remembered  how 
she  had  insisted  upon  the  fact  that  the  MacDermotts  had 
lived  over  the  shop  in  Ballyards  for  several  generations ; 
and  now,  with  her  repetition  of  the  statement  that  London 
was  an  unneighbourly  town,  he  realised  that  Ballyards  in 
her  mind  was  a  place  of  kinsmen,  that  the  people  of  Bally- 
ards were  members  of  one  family.  She  was  horrified  when 
she  discovered  that  Hinde  had  been  stating  the  bare  truth 
when  he  said  that  he  had  lived  in  Miss  Squibb 's  house  for 
several  years,  but  still  was  ignorant  of  the  names  of  his 
neighbours.  Miss  Squibb  had  told  her  that  people  in  Lon- 
don made  a  habit  of  taking  a  house  on  a  three-years'  lease. 
"When  it  expires,  they  go  somewhere  else,"  she  had  said. 
Miss  Squibb  had  never  heard  of  a  family  that  had  lived  in 
the  same  house  in  London  for  several  generations.  She  did 
not  think  it  was  a  nice  idea,  that.  She  liked  ' '  chynge ' '  her- 
self, and  was  sorry  she  could  not  afford  to  get  as  much 
of  it  as  she  would  like  to  have. 

"1  do  not  understand  the  people  in  this  place,"  Mrs. 
MacDermott  had  complained  to  Hinde.  "They've  no  feel- 
ing for  anything.  They  don 't  love  their  homes !  .  .  . " 

294 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  295 

But  although  she  had  stayed  in  London  for  a  week  only, 
she  had  seen  much  of  Eleanor  Moore  in  that  time.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  John,  until  the  moment  his  mother  and  he 
entered  Charing  Cross  station,  that  Mrs.  MacDennott  and 
Eleanor  might  not  like  each  other.  He  imagined  that  his 
mother  must  like  Eleanor  simply  because  he  liked  her,  but 
as  he  held  a  swing-door  open  so  that  his  mother  might  pass 
through,  a  sudden  dubiety  took  possession  of  him  and  he 
became  full  of  alarm.  Supposing  they  did  not  care  for 
each  other?  .  .  .  The  doubt  had  hardly  time  to  enter  his 
mind  when  it  was  resolved  for  him.  Eleanor  arrived  at 
the  bookstall  almost  simultaneously  with  themselves.  (It 
struck  him  then  that  Eleanor  was  a  remarkably  punctual 
girl.)  "This  is  my  mother,  Eleanor!"  he  had  said,  and 
stood  anxiously  by  to  watch  their  greeting.  The  old  woman 
and  the  girl  regarded  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  then 
Mrs.  MacDermott  had  taken  Eleanor's  outstretched  hand 
and  had  drawn  her  to  her  and  had  kissed  her;  and  John's 
dubiety  disappeared  from  his  mind.  They  had  dined  to- 
gether in  Soho  that  night,  but  Mrs.  MacDermott  had  not 
enjoyed  the  meal.  The  number  of  diners  and  the  clatter  of 
dishes  and  knives  and  the  foreign  look  and  the  foreign  lan- 
guage of  the  waiters  disconcerted  her  and  made  her  feel  as 
if  she  were  a  stranger.  Above  all  else  in  the  world,  Mrs. 
MacDermott  hated  to  feel  like  a  stranger!  She  demanded 
familiar  surroundings  and  faces,  and  was  unhappy  when 
she  found  herself  without  recognition.  The  menu  made  her 
Auspicious  of  the  food  because  it  was  written  in  French. 
She  distrusted  foreigners.  London  appeared  to  be  full  of 
all  sorts  of  people  from  all  parts  of  the  world.  Never  in 
her  life  had  she  seen  so  many  black  men  as  she  had  seen 
in  London  that  day.  John  had  taken  her  to  St.  Paul's  Ca- 
thedral in  the  afternoon  and  had  shown  her  the  place  where 
Queen  Victoria  returned  thanks  to  Almighty  God  for  her 
Diamond  Jubilee  .  .  .  and  there,  standing  on  the  very  steps 
of  a  Christian  church,  was  a  Chinaman!  There  were  no 


296  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

Chinamen  in  Ballyards,  thank  God,  nor  were  there  any 
black  men  either.  She  realised,  of  course,  that  God  had 
made  black  men  and  Chinamen  and  every  other  sort  of 
men,  but  she  wished  that  they  would  stay  in  the  land  in 
which  God  had  put  them  and  would  not  go  trapesing  about 
the  world !  .  .  . 

''What  about  us,  then?"  said  John.  "We  don't  stay  in 
the  one  place ! ' ' 

"I  know  that,"  she  replied.  "That's  what's  wrong  with 
the  world.  Everyone  should  stay  in  his  own  country ! ' ' 

The  dinner  had  not  entirely  pleased  John.  Somehow, 
in  a  way  that  he  could  not  understand,  he  found  himself 
being  edged  out  of  the  conversation,  not  altogether,  but  as 
a  principal.  His  mother  and  Eleanor  addressed  each  other 
primarily ;  they  only  addressed  him  now  and  then  and  in  a 
way  that  seemed  to  indicate  that  they  had  suddenly  remem- 
bered his  presence  and  were  afraid  he  might  feel  hurt  at 
being  left  out  of  their  talk.  He  was  glad,  of  course,  that 
his  mother  and  Eleanor  were  getting  on  so  well  together, 
but  after  all  he  was  in  charge  of  this  affair.  .  .  .  When 
his  mother  proposed  to  Eleanor  that  they  should  meet  on  the 
following  evening  and  go  somewhere  for  a  quiet  talk,  he 
could  hardly  believe  his  ears. 

' '  But  what  about  me  ? "  he  said. 

' '  Oh,  you !    You  '11  do  rightly ! "  his  mother  replied. 

"But!  .  .  ." 

"You  can  come  and  bring  me  home  from  wherever  we 
go,"  Mrs.  MacDermott  continued. 

Eleanor  had  suggested  that  Mrs.  MacDermott  should 
meet  her  at  the  bookstall  and  go  to  her  club  from  which 
John  would  fetch  her  at  ten  o  'clock. 

"That'll  do  nicely,  Eleanor!"  Mrs.  MacDermott  said. 

John  hardly  noticed  that  his  mother  had  called  Eleanor 
by  her  Christian  name :  it  seemed  natural  that  she  should 
do  so;  but  he  was  vaguely  disturbed  by  the  arrangement 
that  had  just  been  made. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  297 

"I  wonder  what  she's  up  to?"  he  said  to  himself  as  he 
moodily  examined  his  mother's  face. 

He  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  listened  while  Eleanor  and 
his  mother  talked  together.  He  was  not  accustomed  to 
taking  a  subsidiary  part  in  discussions  and  he  greatly  dis- 
liked his  present  position,  but  he  could  not  think  of  any 
way  of  altering  it. 

"Do  you  like  living  in  London?"  Mrs.  MacDermott  had 
suddenly  said  to  Eleanor. 

"No,  I  hate  it,"  Eleanor  vehemently  answered. 

"Then  why  do  you  stay?"  Mrs.  MacDermott  continued. 

' '  I  have  to.  A  girl  gets  better-paid  work  in  London  than 
in  the  provinces.  That 's  the  only  reason ! ' ' 

' '  Would  you  rather  live  in  the  country,  then  ? ' ' 

"Yes!"  Eleanor  said. 

' '  I  wonder  would  you  like  Ballyards ! ' '  Mrs.  MacDermott 
said  almost  as  if  she  were  speaking  to  herself.  Then  she 
began  to  talk  of  something  else. 

ii 

He  had  taken  his  mother  to  Charing  Cross  station  on  the 
following  day,  hoping  that  they  would  relent  and  allow 
him  to  go  to  Eleanor's  club  with  them,  but  neither  of  them 
made  any  sign  of  relenting.  His  mother,  indeed,  turned 
to  him  immediately  after  Eleanor  had  arrived  and  said, 
"Well,  we'll  say  'Good-bye'  for  the  present,  John.  We'll 
expect  you  at  ten ! ' '  and  very  sulkily  he  had  departed  from 
them.  He  saw  Eleanor  lead  his  mother  out  of  the  station. 
She  had  taken  hold  of  Mrs.  MacDermott 's  arm  and  drawn 
it  into  hers,  and  linked  thus,  they  had  gone  out,  but  neither 
of  them  had  turned  to  look  back  at  him.  He  had  not 
known  how  to  fill  in  the  time  between  then  and  ten  o'clock 
.  .  .  whether  to  go  to  a  theatre  or  walk  about  the  streets 
.  .  .  and  had  ended  by  spinning  out  his  dinner-time  as 
long  as  possible,  and  then  walking  from  Soho  to  Eleanor's 


298  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

club.  He  had  arrived  there  before  ten  o'clock,  but  they 
allowed  him  to  sit  with  them !  .  .  .  He  had  an  overwhelm- 
ing sense  of  being  allowed  to  do  so.  Suddenly  and  unac- 
countably all  his  power  had  gone  from  him,  his  instinctive 
insistence  upon  his  own  will,  his  immediate  assumption  that 
what  he  desired  must  be  acceptable  to  others  and  his  com- 
plete indifference  to  whether  what  he  desired  was  accept- 
able or  not  to  others  .  .  .  suddenly  and  unaccountably 
these  things  had  gone  from  him  and  he  was  submitting  to 
the  will  of  his  mother  and  of  Eleanor.  His  mother's  con- 
versation, too,  had  been  displeasing  to  him.  She  talked  of 
Ballyards  and  of  the  shop  all  the  time.  She  talked  of  the 
prosperity  of  the  business  and  of  the  respect  in  which  the 
MacDermotts  were  held  in  their  town.  Mr.  Hinde  had  told 
her  of  the  harsh  conditions  in  which  journalists  and  writ- 
ers had  to  work,  particularly  the  journalists.  They  had  no 
settled  life  .  .  .  they  went  here,  there  and  everywhere,  but 
their  wives  stayed  always  in  the  one  place  .  .  .  and  some- 
times money  was  not  easily  obtainable.  Anything  might 
happen  to  put  a  journalist  out  of  employment !  .  .  . 

"But  I  don't  want  to  be  a  journalist,  mother !"  John  had 
testily  interrupted.  ' '  I  want  to  write  books  and  plays ! ' ' 

"That's  even  worse,"  she  had  said.  "It  takes  a  man 
years  and  years  before  he  can  earn  a  living  out  of  books. 
Mr.  Hinde  told  me  that !  .  .  . " 

"He  seems  to  have  told  you  a  fearful  lot,"  John  sarcas- 
tically exclaimed. 

' '  I  asked  him  a  lot, ' '  Mrs.  MacDermott  replied.  ' '  If  you 
ever  get  that  book  of  yours  printed  at  all,  he  says,  you'll 
not  get  more  nor  thirty  pounds  for  it,  if  you  get  that  much. 
And  there's  little  hope  of  you  making  your  fortune  with 
the  tragedy  you're  wasting  your  time  over.  Now,  your 
Uncle  William  has  a  big  turnover  in  the  shop !  .  .  . " 

"I  daresay  he  has,"  John  snapped,  "but  I'm  not  inter- 
ested in  the  shop,  and  I  am  interested  in  books!" 

"Oh,  well,"  Mrs.  MacDermott  murmured,  "it's  nice  to 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  299 

have  work  that  takes  your  fancy,  but  if  you  get  married 
I'm  thinking  your  wife '11  have  a  poor  job  of  it  making 
ends  meet  on  the  amount  of  interest  you  take  in  your  work, 
if  that's  all  the  reward  you  get  for  it.  You  were  a  year 
writing  that  story  of  yours,  and  you  haven't  had  a  penny- 
farthing  for  it  yet.  However,  you  know  best  what  suits 
you.  I  suppose  it 's  time  we  were  thinking  about  the  road ! " 
She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  Eleanor  rose  too.  ' '  Come  up  to 
my  room,"  Eleanor  said,  "and  we'll  get  your  things!" 

They  left  John  sitting  in  the  cheerless  room.  "That's  a 
queer  way  for  her  to  be  talking,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"Making  little  of  me  like  that!" 

He  maintained  a  sulky  manner  towards  his  mother  as 
they  returned  to  Brixton,  but  Mrs.  MacUermott  paid  no 
heed  to  him. 

"Fancy  having  to  go  all  this  way  to  see  your  girl,"  she 
said,  as  they  climbed  the  steps  of  Miss  Squibb 's  house.  ' '  In 
Ballyards  you'd  only  have  to  go  round  the  corner!" 

"I  daresay,"  he  replied,  "but  you  wouldn't  find  Elea- 
nor 's  match  there  if  you  went ! ' ' 

"No,"  she  agreed.  "Eleanor's  a  fine  girl.  I  like  her 
queer  and  well.  She  was  very  interested  to  hear  about 
Ballyards  and  the  shop.  Very  interested!" 

She  turned  to  him  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

"Good-night,  son,"  she  said.  "I'm  away  to  my  bed. 
I'm  tired!" 

She  put  her  arms  round  him.  "You're  a  queer  head- 
strong wee  fellow,"  she  said.  "Queer  and  headstrong! 
Good-night,  son ! ' ' 

"Good-night,  ma!"  he  replied  as  he  kissed  her. 

He  held  her  for  a  moment.  "I  can't  make  out  what  you 
and  Eleanor  had  to  talk  about,"  he  said.  "What  were  you 
talking  about?" 

' '  Oh,  nothing ! ' '  she  replied.  ' '  Just  about  things  that  in- 
terest women.  You  wouldn't  be  bothered  with  such  talk. 
And  you  know,  son,  women  likes  to  have  a  wee  crack  to- 


300  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

gether  when  there's  no  men  about.  It's  just  a  wee  comfort 
to  them.  Good-night ! ' ' 

"Good-night,  ma!" 

She  went  up  the  stairs,  and  when  she  had  disappeared 
round  the  bend  of  the  bannisters,  John  went  into  the  sit- 
ting-room. There  was  a  postal  packet  for  him  lying  on  the 
table.  It  contained  the  MS.  of  his  novel.  Messrs.  Hatch- 
way and  Seldon  informed  him  that  they  had  read  his 
story  with  great  interest,  but  they  were  sorry  to  have  to  in- 
form him  that  conditions  of  the  publishing  trade  at  present 
were  such  that  they  saw  no  hope  of  a  return  for  the  money 
they  would  be  obliged  to  spend  on  the  book.  They  would 
esteem  it  a  favour  if  he  would  permit  them  to  see  future 
work  of  his  and  they  begged  to  remain  his  faithfully  per 
pro  Hatchway  and  Selden,  J.P.T. 

"Asses!"  he  said,  as  he  wrapped  the  MS.  up  again  in  the 
very  paper  in  which  Messrs.  Hatchway  and  Selden  had  re- 
turned it  to  him.  Then  he  tied  the  parcel  securely  and 
addressed  it  to  Messrs.  Gooden  and  Knight,  who,  he  told 
himself,  were  much  better  publishers  than  Messrs.  Hatch- 
way and  Selden.  He  would  post  it  in  the  morning. 

iii 

And  then  a  queer  thing  happened  to  him.  He  had  been 
about  to  extinguish  the  light  and  go  to  bed,  when  he  remem- 
bered that  the  parcel  of  MS.  was  lying  on  the  table  and  that 
his  mother  would  see  it  in  the  morning.  She  would  prob- 
ably ask  questions  about  it  ...  and  he  would  have  to  tell 
her  that  Messrs.  Hatchway  and  Selden  had  refused  to  pub- 
lish it.  He  seized  the  parcel  and  tucked  it  under  his  arm. 
He  would  keep  it  in  his  room  and  post  it  without  saying 
anything  to  her  about  it.  He  did  not  wish  her  to  know  that 
it  had  been  declined.  Messrs.  Hatchway  and  Selden  had 
given  a  very  good  excuse  for  not  publishing  it — conditions 
of  the  publishing  trade — and  they  had  manifested  a  desire 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  301 

to  see  other  work  of  his.  That  could  hardly  be  said  to  be 
a  refusal  to  print  the  book  ...  at  all  events,  it  could  not 
be  called  an  ordinary,  condemnatory  refusal.  No  doubt, 
had  the  conditions  of  the  publishing  trade  been  easier, 
Messrs.  Hatchway  and  Selden  would  have  been  extremely 
pleased  to  print  the  book.  It  was  not  their  fault  that  the 
conditions  of  the  publishing  trade  were  so  difficult!  .  .  . 
Anyhow,  he  did  not  wish  his  mother  to  know  that  the  book 
had  been  refused,  even  though  the  conditions  of  the  pub- 
lishing trade  were  so  difficult.  So  he  took  the  MS.  up  to 
his  bedroom  with  him. 

iv 

He  had  been  enormously  relieved  when  his  mother  re- 
turned to  Ireland.  Eleanor  and  he  had  seen  her  off  from 
Euston.  .  .  .  Hinde  had  come  for  a  few  moments  snatched 
from  an  important  job  .  .  .  and  he  had  been  very  con- 
scious of  some  understanding  between  the  two  women  which 
was  not  expressible.  It  was  as  if  his  mother  were  not  his 
mother,  but  Eleanor's  mother  ...  as  if  he  were  simply 
Eleanor's  young  man  come  to  say  good-bye  to  Eleanor's 
mother  .  .  .  and  she  were  being  polite  to  him,  because 
Eleanor  would  like  her  to  be  polite  to  him.  He  felt  that 
things  were  being  taken  out  of  his  control,  that  he  had 
ceased  to  have  charge  of  things  and  was  now  himself  being 
ordered  and  controlled ;  but  he  could  not  definitely  say  what 
caused  him  to  feel  this  nor  could  he  think  of  any  notable  in- 
cident which  would  confirm  him  in  his  fear  that  control 
had  passed  out  of  his  hands.  All  he  knew  was  that  he  was 
glad  his  mother  had  resisted  his  importunities  to  her  to  stay 
for  a  longer  time  in  London.  This  state  of  uncertainty  had 
not  begun  until  Mrs.  MacDermott  suddenly  and  without 
warning  had  arrived  at  his  lodgings.  He  hoped  that  it 
would  end  with  her  departure  from  Euston.  Eleanor's  at- 
titude towards  him  during  the  week  of  his  mother's  visit 
had  been  very  odd.  She  accepted  him  now  without  any 


302  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

qualms,  but  not,  he  felt,  as  her  husband  to  be,  hardly  even 
as  her  lover.  She  accepted  him,  instead,  as  one  who  might 
become  her  lover  if  she  could  persuade  herself  to  consent  to 
allow  him  to  do  so.  Once,  in  a  moment  of  dreadful  humil- 
ity, he  imagined  that  she  accepted  him  merely  as  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dermott's  son!  ...  He  had  watched  the  train  haul  itself 
out  of  the  station  and  had  waved  his  hat  to  his  mother 
until  she  was  no  longer  distinguishable,  and  then  he  had 
turned  to  Eleanor  with  a  curiously  determined  look  in  his 
eye. 

' '  Are  you  going  to  marry  me  ? "  he  demanded. 

' '  Yes, ' '  she  said,  ' '  I  think  I  will.  I  like  your  mother  aw- 
f'lly,  John!  ..." 

"  It 's  me  you  're  going  to  marry.  Not  her.  Do  you  like 
me?" 

"Yes,  I  like  you  .  .  .  though  you're  frightfully  con- 
ceited and  selfish !  .  .  . " 

"Selfish!  Me?  Because  I  try  hard  to  get  what  I 
want  ? "  he  indignantly  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  we  won't  argue  about  it.  You'll  never  under- 
stand. I  don't  know  whether  I  love  you  or  not.  But  I 
like  you.  I  like  you  very  much.  Of  course,  we  may  be 
making  a  mistake.  It's  foolish  of  me  to  marry  you  when 
I  know  so  little  about  you  .  .  .  and  that  little  scares 
me!  .  .  ." 

"What  scares  you?" 

"Your  selfishness  scares  me.  You  are  selfish.  You're 
frightfully  selfish.  You  think  of  nothing  and  no  one  but 
yourself!  ..." 

"Amn't  I  always  thinking  of  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  but  only  because  you  want  me  to  marry  you. 
That's  all!" 

He  was  very  puzzled  by  this  statement.  "What  other 
reason  would  a  man  have  for  thinking  of  a  woman?"  he 
asked. 

"That's  just  it,"  she  replied.     "You  can't  think  of  any 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  303 

other  reason  for  thinking  about  a  woman  .  .  .  and  I  can 
think  of  a  whole  lot  of  reasons.  But  I  shall  marry  you  in 
spite  of  your  selfishness  because  I  know  you're  as  good  as 
I'm  likely  to  get!  .  .  ." 

"That's  a  queer  reason  for  marrying  a  man  !" 

' '  I  suppose  it  is.  You  're  really  rather  a  dear,  John,  and 
I  daresay  I  shall  get  to  love  you  quite  well  .  .  .  but  I  don't 
now.  Why  should  I?  I  haven't  known  you  very  long 
.  .  .  and  you  've  rather  pestered  me,  haven 't  you  ? ' ' 

"No,  I  haven't!" 

"  Yes,  you  have.  But  I  don't  mind  that.  Being  pestered 
by  you  is  somehow  different  from  being  pestered  by  other 
men.  ..." 

"Have  any  other  men  bothered  you?"  he  interrupted. 

They  were  walking  towards  Tottenham  Court  Eoad  as 
they  spoke,  and  her  arm  was  securely  held  in  his. 

"Of  course  they  have,"  she  answered.  "Do  you  think 
a  girl  can  walk  about  London  without  some  man  pestering 
her.  Old  men!  ..."  She  shuddered  and  said  "Oh!"  in 
tones  of  disgust.  "Why  are  old  men  so  beastly?" 

"Are  they?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course  they  are.  Beastly  old  things.  I 
think  old  men  ought  to  be  killed  before  they  get  nasty 
.  .  .  but  never  mind  that.  Being  pestered  by  you  is  very 
different  from  that  sort  of  thing.  I  know  very  well  that 
you  won't  stop  asking  me  to  marry  you  until  I  either  say  I 
will  or  I  run  away  from  London  altogether  and  hide 
myself  from  you;  and  I  don't  want  to  do  that.  So  I'll 
marry  you!" 

He  glanced  at  her  in  a  wrathful  manner. 

"Is  that  what  my  mother  told  you  to  say?"  he  asked. 

"Your  mother?  She  never  said  anything  at  all  about 
it!" 

John  laughed.  " I  told  her  about  it, "  he  said.  "That's 
what  she  came  over  about.  She  wanted  to  have  a  look  at 
you!" 


304  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  guessed  that.  I  did  in 
a  way,  but  I  didn't  know  you'd  said  anything  definite 
about  it!" 

"  I  'm  always  definite, ' '  said  John. 

' '  Yes.     M '  yes,  I  suppose  you  are ! ' ' 

They  walked  down  Tottenham  Court  Road  and  caught  a 
'bus  going  along  Oxford  Street. 

"You  don't  seem  very  pleased  now  that  I've  said  I'll 
marry  you,"  she  murmured,  as  they  sat  together  on  the 
back  seat  on  top  of  the  'bus. 

"I  believe  you're  only  marrying  me  to  get  away  from 
that  club  you  're  living  in ! "  he  replied. 

"That's  one  reason,  but  it  isn't  the  only  reason.  I  do 
like  you,  John.  Really,  I  do !" 

"I  want  you  to  love  me,  love  me  desperately,  the  way  I 
love  you." 

"But  you've  no  right  to  expect  that.  Women  don't 
love  men  for  a  long  time  after  men  love  them  .  .  .  and 
sometimes  they  never  love  them.  There's  a  girl  in  our 
club  .  .  .  well,  she's  not  a  girl,  but  she's  unmarried,  so 
of  course  we  call  her  a  girl  .  .  .  and  she  says  that  most  of 
us  can  live  fairly  happily  with  quite  a  number  of  people. 
She  says  that  a  person  has  one  supreme  love  affair  .  .  . 
which  may  not  come  to  anything  .  .  .  and  enough  liking 
for  about  a  hundred  people  to  be  able  to  marry  and  live 
happily  with  anyone  of  them.  I  think  that's  true.  I've 
known  plenty  of  men  that  I  think  I  could  have  married 
and  been  happy  enough  with.  You're  one  of  them!  ..." 

"This  is  a  nice  thing  to  be  telling  me  when  my  heart's 
bursting  for  you.  I  tell  you,  Eleanor,  I  love  you  till  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  doing  or  thinking,  and  all  you  tell 
me  is  that  I'm  one  out  of  a  hundred  and  you  like  me  well 
enough  to  put  up  with  me !  .  .  . " 

"You  don't  want  me  to  tell  you  that  I'm  in  love  with 
you  .  .  .  like  that  .  .  .  when  I  'm  not  ? ' ' 

"No,  of  course  not  .  .  .  only!  .  .  ," 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  305 

' '  Perhaps  you  don 't  want  to  marry  me  now ! ' ' 
He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  pressed  her  so  tightly 
that  she  gave  a  little  cry  of  rebuke.  "I  love  you  so  much," 
he  said,  "that  I'm  thankful  glad  for  the  least  bit  of  liking 
you  have  for  me.  I  wish  I  'd  known  sooner.  I  'd  have  told 
my  mother  before  she  went  back  to  Ballyards ! ' ' 

"I'll  write  and  tell  her  myself,"  said  Eleanor.     "I'd 
like  to  tell  her  myself ! ' ' 


"I'm  going  to  be  married,"  John  said  to  Hinde  that 
night. 

"I  thought  as  much,"  Hinde  replied. 

"Why?" 

"Well,  when  a  man  does  one  dam-fool  thing,  he  generally 
follows  it  up  with  another.  You  lose  your  job  on  the 
Sensation,  and  then  you  get  engaged  to  be  married.  I 
daresay  your  wife  '11  have  a  child  just  about  the  time  you  've 
spent  every  ha'penny  you  possess.  I  suppose  that  was  her 
at  the  station  to-night?"  John  nodded  his  head.  "Well, 
you  're  a  lucky  man ! ' ' 

' '  Thank  you, ' '  said  John. 

' '  I  don 't  know  whether  she 's  a  lucky  woman  or  not ! ' ' 

"Thank  you,"  said  John.  "If  you've  no  more  compli- 
ments to  pay,  I  '11  go  to  my  bed ! ' ' 

"Good-night.  Cream's  coming  back  to-morrow.  Miss 
Squibb  had  a  letter  from  him  this  evening!" 

But  John  took  no  interest  in  the  Creams. 

"If  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  fall  out  with  the  Creams," 
said  Hinde.  "Now  that  you're  going  to  get  married,  the 
money  he'll  pay  you  for  a  sketch  will  be  useful.  I  suppose 
you  '11  begin  to  be  serious  when  you  're  married  ? ' ' 

"I'm  serious  now,"  John  replied. 

"At  present,  Mac,  you're  merely  bumptious.  I  was  like 
that  when  I  first  came  to  London.  I  had  noble  ideals,  but 


306  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

I  very  soon  discovered  that  the  other  high-minded  men 
were  not  quite  so  idealistic  as  I  was.  I  know  one  high- 
souled  fellow  who  went  into  a  newspaper  office  and  asked  to 
be  allowed  to  review  a  novel  with  the  express  intention  of 
damning  it  because  he  had  some  grudge  against  the  author. 
Half  the  exalted  scribblers  in  London  are  busily  employed 
scratching  each  other's  backs,  and  if  you  aren't  in  their 
little  gang,  you  either  are  not  noticed  at  all  in  their  papers 
or  you  are  unfairly  judged  or  very,  very  faintly  praised. 
You've  either  got  to  be  in  a  gang  in  London  or  to  be  so 
immeasurably  great  or  lucky  that  you  can  disregard  gangs 
.  .  .  otherwise  there's  very  little  likelihood  of  you  getting 
a  foothold  in  what  you  call  good  papers.  I  know  these 
papers.  Mr.  Noblemind  is  editor  of  one  paper  and  Mr. 
Greatfellow  is  a  regular  contributor  to  another  and  Mr. 
Praisemeandl 'llpraiseyou  is  the  literary  editor  of  a  third, 
and  they  employ  each  other;  and  Mr.  Noblemind  calls  at- 
tention to  the  beauty  of  his  pals'  work  in  his  paper,  and 
they  call  attention  to  the  beauty  of  his  in  theirs.  My  dear 
Mac,  if  you  really  want  to  know  what  dishonesty  in  jour- 
nalism is,  worm  yourself  into  the  secrets  of  the  highbrow 
Press  and  the  noble  poets.  I'm  a  Yellow  Journalist  and  a 
failure,  but  by  heaven,  I'm  an  honest  Yellow  Journalist 
and  an  honest  failure.  I'm  not  an  indifferent  journalist 
pretending  to  be  a  poet !  .  .  . " 

"I  don't  see  what  all  this  has  got  to  do  with  me,"  John 
said. 

"No,"  Hinde  replied  in  a  quieter  tone.  "No,  I  suppose 
it  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  you.  You're  quite  right. 
I  'm  in  a  bad  temper  to-night.  I  'm  glad  you  're  engaged  to 
that  girl.  She  looks  a  sensible  sort  of  woman.  Heard 
any  more  about  your  book  ? ' ' 

"Yes.     It's  been  returned  to  me!  .  .  ." 

' '  Oh,  my  dear  chap,  I  'm  very  sorry ! ' ' 

"I've  sent  it  out  again.  It's  sure  to  be  printed  by 
someone, ' '  John  said. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  307 

"I  hope  so.     I  wish  you'd  let  me  read  it !" 
"Yes,  I'd  like  you  to  read  it.     I  wish  I'd  kept  it  back  a 
while.     But  you  '11  see  it  some  day.     Good-night ! ' ' 
"Good-night,  Mac!" 

vi 

The  Creams  returned  to  Miss  Squibb 's  on  the  following 
evening,  and  Cream  came  to  see  Hinde  and  John  soon  after 
they  arrived.  Dolly,  he  said,  was  too  tired  after  her 
journey  to  do  more  than  send  a  friendly  greeting  to  them. 

"I  wanted  to  have  a  talk  to  you  about  that  sketch,"  he 
said  to  John.  "It's  very  good,  of  course,  quite  classy, 
in  fact,  but  it  wants  tightening  up.  Snap!  That's  what 
it  wants.  And  a  little  bit  of  vulgarity.  Oh,  not  too 
much.  Of  course  not.  But  it  doesn't  do  to  overlook  vul- 
garity, Mac.  We  've  all  got  a  bit  of  it  in  us,  and  pers  'nally, 
I  see  no  harm  in  it,  pro-vided  .  .  .  pro-vided,  mind  you 
.  .  .  that  it's  comic.  That's  the  only  excuse  for  vulgarity 
.  .  .  that  it 's  comic.  Now,  the  first  thing  is  the  title ! ' ' 

Mr.  Cream  took  the  MS.  of  John's  sketch  from  his  pocket 
and  spread  it  on  the  table.  "This  won't  do  at  all,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  the  title-page  of  the  play.  "Love's 
Tribute!  My  dear  old  Mac,  what  the  hell's  the  good  of  a 
title  like  that?  Where's  the  snap  in  it?  Where's  the  at- 
traction, the  allurement  ?  Nowhere.  A  title  like  that 
wouldn't  draw  twopence  into  a  theatre.  Love's  Tribute! 
I  ask  you!  ..."  His  feelings  made  him  inarticulate  and 
he  gazed  round  the  room  in  a  helpless  manner. 

"Well,  what  would  you  call  it?"  John  demanded. 

"Something  snappy.  I  often  say  a  title's  half  the 
play.  Now,  take  a  piece  like  The  Girl  Who  Lost  Her  Char- 
acter or  The  Man  With  Two  Wives  .  .  .  there's  a  bit  of 
snap  about  that.  Titles  like  those  simply  haul  'em  into 
the  theatre.  Snap!  Go!  Ginger!  Something  that  sounds 
'ot,  but  isn't  .  .  .  that's  the  stuff  to  give  the  British  public. 
You  make  'em  think  they're  going  to  see  something  .  .  . 


308  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

well,  you  know  .  .  .  and  they'll  stand  four  deep  in  the 
snow  waiting  to  get  into  the  theatre.  If  you  were  to  put 
the  Book  of  Genesis  on  the  stage  and  call  it  The  Girl  Who 
Took  The  Wrong  Turning,  people  'ud  think  they'd  seen 
something  they  oughtn't  to  ...  and  they'd  tell  all  their 
friends.  Now,  how  about  The  Guilty  Woman  for  your 
sketch,  Mac? 

John  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "But  the  woman 
in  it  isn't  guilty  of  anything,"  he  protested. 

"That  doesn't  matter.  The  title  needn't  have  anything 
to  do  with  it.  Very  few  titles  have  anything  to  do  with 
the  piece.  So  long  as  they're  snappy,  that's  all  you  need 
think  about.  Pers  'nally,  I  like  The  Guilty  Woman  myself ; 
but  Dolly's  keen  on  The  Sinful  Woman.  And  that  just 
reminds  me,  Mac!  Here's  a  tip  for  you.  Always  have 
Woman  in  your  title  if  you  can.  A  Sinful  Woman  '11  draw 
better  than  A  Sinful  Man.  People  seem  to  expect  women  to 
be  more  sinful  than  men  when  they  are  sinful  ...  or 
p'raps  they're  more  used  to  men  being  sinful  than  women. 
I  dunno.  But  it's  a  fact  .  .  .  Woman  in  the  title  is  a 
bigger  draw  than  Man.  And  you  got  to  think  of  these 
little  things.  If  you  want  to  make  a  fortune  out  of  a 
piece,  take  my  advice  and  think  of  a  snappy  adjective  to 
put  in  front  of  Woman  or  Girl!  Really,  you  know,  play- 
writing's  very  simple,  if  you  only  remember  a  few  tips 
liksthat!  .  .  ." 

"But  my  play  isn't  about  sin  at  all,"  John  protested. 

"Well,  what's  the  good  of  it  then?"  Cream  demanded. 
"All  plays  are  about  sin  of  some  sort,  aren't  they?  If 
people  aren  't  breaking  a  rule  or  a  commandment,  there 's  no 
plot,  and  if  there's  no  plot,  there's  no  play.  Of  course, 
Bernard  Shaw  and  all  these  chaps,  they  don't  believe  in 
plots  or  climaxes  or  anything,  and  they  turn  out  pieces 
that  sound  as  if  they'd  wrote  the  first  half  in  their  Oxford 
days  and  the  second  half  when  they  were  blind  drunk. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  309 

You  Ve  got  to  have  a  plot,  Mac,  and  if  you  've  got  to  have  a 
plot,  you've  got  to  have  sin.  What  'ud  Hamlet  be  without 
the  sin  in  it  ?  Nothing !  Why,  there  wasn  't  any  drama  in 
the  world  'til  Adam  and  Eve  fell!  You  take  it  from  me, 
Mac,  there'll  be  no  drama  in  heaven.  Why?  Because 
there'll  be  no  sin  there.  But  there'll  be  a  hell  of  a  lot  in 
hell!  Now,  I  like  The  Guilty  Woman.  It's  not  quite  so 
bare-faced  as  The  Sinful  Woman,  but  as  Dolly  likes  it 
better  .  .  .  she 's  more  intense  than  I  am  ...  we  '11  have  to 
have  it,  I  expect ! ' ' 

"I  don't  like  either  of  those  titles,"  John  said,  gulping 
as  he  spoke,  for  he  felt  that  there  was  a  difference  of  view 
between  Cream  and  him  that  could  not  be  overcome. 

"Well,  think  of  a  better  one  then,"  Cream  good- 
naturedly  answered.  "There's  another  thing.  As  I  said, 
the  piece  wants  overhauling,  but  you  can  leave  that  to  me. 
When  I  've  had  a  good  go  at  it !  .  .  . " 

"But!  .  .  ." 

"Now,  look  here,  Mac,"  Cream  firmly  proceeded,  "you 
be  guided  by  me.  You're  a  youngster  at  the  game,  and 
I'm  an  old  hand.  I  never  met  a  young  author  yet  that 
didn't  imagine  his  play  had  come  straight  from  the  mind  of 
God  and  mustn't  have  a  word  altered.  The  tip-top  chaps 
don't  think  like  that.  They're  always  altering  and  chang- 
ing their  plays  during  rehearsal  .  .  .  and  sometimes  after 
they've  been  produced,  too.  Look  at  Pinero !  He's  altered 
the  whole  end  of  a  play  before  now.  He  had  a  most  un- 
happy end  to  The  Profligate  .  .  .  the  hero  committed 
suicide  in  the  last  act  .  .  .  but  the  public  wouldn  't  have  it. 
They  said  they  wanted  a  happy  end,  and  Pinero  had  the 
good  sense  to  give  it  to  them.  In  my  opinion  the  public 
was  right.  The  happy  end  was  the  right  end  for  that 
piece!  ..." 

' '  But  artistically !  .  .  . "  John  pleaded. 

"Artistically!"  Cream  exclaimed  in  mocking  tones  to 


310  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

Hinde.  ''I  ask  you!  Artistically!  What's  Art?  Pleas- 
ing people.  That 's  what  Art  is ! " 

"Oh,  no,"  John  protested.  "Pleasing  yourself,  per- 
haps! ..." 

"And  aren't  you  most  pleased  when  you  feel  that  people 
are  pleased  with  you.  I  ask  you !  What  do  you  publish 
books  for  if  you  only  want  to  please  yourself?  Why  don't 
you  keep  your  great  thoughts  to  yourself  if  you  don 't  want 
to  please  anybody  else?  Yah-r-r,  this  Art  talk  makes  me 
feel  sick.  You'd  rather  sell  two  thousand  copies  of  a  book 
than  two  hundred,  wouldn't  you?  Of  course,  you  would. 
I  Ve  heard  these  highbrow  chaps  talking  about  the  Mob  and 
the  Tasteful  Few.  I  acted  in  a  play  once  by  a  fellow  who 
was  always  bleating  about  the  Tasteful  Few  .  .  .  and  you 
should  have  heard  the  way  he  went  on  when  his  play  only 
drew  the  Tasteful  Few  to  see  it.  If  his  piece  had  had  a 
chance  of  a  long  run,  do  you  think  he  'd  have  stopped  it  at 
the  end  of  a  month  because  he  objected  to  long  runs  as 
demoralizing  to  Art.  Not  likely,  my  lad !  .  .  .  Now,  this 
piece  of  yours,  Mac,  has  too  much  talk  in  it  and  not  enough 
incident,  see?  You'll  have  to  cut  some  of  it.  The  talk's 
good,  but  in  plays  the  talk  mustn't  take  the  audience  off 
the  point,  no  matter  how  good  it  is.  See?  You  don't 
want  long  speeches:  you  want  short  ones.  The  talk  ought 
to  be  like  a  couple  of  chaps  sparring  .  .  .  only  not  too 
much  fancy  work.  I've  seen  a  lot  of  boxing  in  my  time. 
There's  boxers  that  goes  in  for  what's  called  pretty  work 
.  .  .  nice,  neat  boxing  .  .  .  but  the  spectators  soon  begin 
to  yawn  over  it.  What  people  like  to  see  is  one  chap 
getting  a  smack  on  the  jaw  and  the  other  chap  getting  a 
black  eye.  And  it's  the  same  with  everything.  Ever  seen 
Cinquevalli  balancing  a  billiard  ball  on  top  of  another  one  ? 
Took  him  years  to  learn  that  trick,  but  he'll  tell  you  him- 
self ...  he  lives  round  the  corner  from  here  .  .  .  that  his 
audiences  take  more  interest  in  some  flashy-looking  thing 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  311 

that 's  dead  easy  to  do.  When  he  throws  a  cannon-ball  up 
into  the  air  and  catches  it  on  the  back  of  his  neck  .  .  .  they 
think  that's  wonderful  .  .  .  but  it  isn't  half  so  wonderful 
as  balancing  one  billiard-ball  on  top  of  another  one.  See? 
So  it's  no  good  being  subtle  before  simple  people.  They 
don't  understand  you,  and  they  just  get  up  and  walk  out 
or  give  you  the  bird!  ..." 

"  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  something, ' '  he  continued,  as  if  he 
had  not  said  a  word  before.  "I've  noticed  human  nature  a 
good  deal,  and  I  think  I  know  something  about  it.  There 
was  a  sketch  we  did  once,  called  The  Twiddley  Bits.  It 
was  written  by  the  same  chap  that  did  The  Girl  Who  Gets 
Left  ...  he  had  a  knack,  that  chap  .  .  .  only  he  took  to 
drink  and  died.  There  was  a  joke  in  The  Twiddley  Bits 
that  went  down  everywhere.  Here  it  is.  I  played  the  part 
of  a  comic  footman,  and  I  had  to  say  to  the  villain,  'What 
are  you  looking  at,  guv 'nor?'  and  he  replied,  'I'm  won- 
dering what  on  earth  that  is!'  and  then  he  pointed  to  my 
face.  That  got  a  laugh  to  start  with.  Then  I  had  to  say, 
'It's  my  face.  What  did  you  think  it  was?  A  sardine 
tin?'  That  got  a  roar.  Brought  the  house  down,  that 
did.  We  played  that  piece  all  over  the  world,  'Mac,  and 
that  joke  never  failed  once.  Not  once.  We  played  it  in 
England,  Ireland,  Scotland,  Wales,  America,  New  Zealand, 
South  Africa  and  Australia,  and  it  never  missed  once. 
Fetched  'em  every  time.  Human  nature's  about  the  same 
everywhere,  once  you  get  to  understand  it,  Mac,  and  if  you 
like  you  can  put  that  joke  in  your  play.  It'll  help  it  out 
a  bit  in  the  middle !  . 


vn 

"Well?"  said  Hinde  to  John  when  Cream  had  left  them. 
"I'd  rather  sell  happorths  of  tea  and  sugar  than  write 
the  kind  of  play  he  wants, ' '  John  replied. 


812  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

Hinde  paused  for  a  few  moments.  Then  he  said,  "Why 
don't  you  sell  tea  and  sugar.  You've  got  a  shop,  haven't 
you?" 

"Because  I'm  going  to  write  books,"  John  answered 
tartly. 

"I  see,  "said  Hinde. 


THE  EIGHTH  CHAPTER 


THREE  months  after  Mrs.  MacDermott  departed  from 
London,  Eleanor  and  John  were  married.  They  walked 
into  St.  Chad's  Church  in  the  Bayswater  Road,  accompanied 
by  Mr.  Hinde  and  Mrs.  MacDermott  (who  had  come  hur- 
riedly to  London  again  for  the  ceremony)  and  Lizzie  and  a 
cousin  of  Eleanor's  who  excited  John's  wrath  by  using  the 
marriage  ceremony  for  propaganda  purposes  in  connexion 
with  Women's  Suffrage;  and  there,  prompted  by  an 
asthmatic  curate,  they  swore  to  love  and  cherish  each  other 
until  death  did  them  part.  Mrs.  MacDermott  had  begged 
for  a  Presbyterian  marriage  in  Ballyards  .  .  .  "where  your 
da  and  me  were  married"  .  .  .  but  there  were  difficulties 
in  the  way  of  satisfying  her  desire,  and  she  had  consented 
to  see  them  married  in  what,  to  her  mind,  was  an  imitation 
of  a  Papist  church.  Eleanor  had  stipulated  for  at  least  a 
year's  engagement,  partly  so  that  they  might  become  more 
certain  of  each  other  and  partly  to  enable  John  to  prove 
that  he  could  earn  enough  money  to  maintain  a  home,  but 
John  had  worn  down  her  opposition  to  an  immediate  mar- 
riage by  asserting  repeatedly  that  he  could  easily  earn 
money  for  her,  would,  in  fact,  be  better  able  to  do  so  because 
of  his  marriage  which  would  stimulate  him  to  greater  ac- 
tivity, and,  finally,  by  his  announcement  that  his  tragedy 
had  been  accepted  for  production  by  the  Cottenham 
Repertory  Theatre.  The  manager  had  written  to  him  to 
say  that  the  Reading  Committee  were  of  opinion  that  his 
interesting  play  should  be  performed,  and  he  enclosed  an 
agreement  which  he  desired  John  to  sign  and  return  to 

313 


314  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

him  at  his  convenience.  He  had  not  been  able  to  restrain 
his  joy  when  he  received  the  letter,  and  he  had  hurried  to 
the  nearest  post  office  so  that  he  might  telephone  the  news 
to  Eleanor. 

' '  My  dear ! ' '  she  said  proudly  over  the  telephone. 

' '  Didn  't  I  tell  you  I  could  do  it, ' '  he  exclaimed.  ' '  Didn  't 
I?" 

' '  Yes,  darling,  you  did ! ' ' 

"Wait  till  Hinde  comes  back!  This '11  be  one  in  the  eye 
for  him.  He  thought  the  play  was  a  very  ordinary  one, 
but  this  proves  that  it  isn't,  doesn't  it,  Eleanor?" 

"Yes,  dear!" 

"It's  a  well-known  theatre,  the  Cottenham  Repertory. 
One  of  the  best-known  in  the  world.  Can  you  get  off  for 
the  day,  do  you  think,  and  we'll  go  out  and  celebrate 
it?  .  .  ." 

"Don't  be  silly,  John!  ..." 

"Well,  we'll  have  lunch  together.  We'll  have  wine  for 
lunch!  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dear,  I'm  nearly  daft  with  joy.  We 
ought  to  make  enough  money  out  of  the  play  to  set  up 
house  at  once.  I  don't  know  how  much  you  make  out  of 
plays,  but  you  make  a  great  deal.  We'll  get  married  at 
once!  ..." 

"But  we  can't!  .  .  ." 

' '  Och,  quit,  woman  !  This  makes  all  the  difference  in  the 
world.  Aren't  you  just  aching  for  a  wee  house  of  your 
own,  the  same  way  that  I  am !  .  .  . " 

And  after  a  struggle  for  time  to  think,  Eleanor  had 
consented  to  be  married  much  sooner  than  she  had  ever 
meant  to  be.  They  were  married  in  June,  and  the  play 
was  to  be  performed  at  the  Cottenham  Repertory  Theatre 
in  the  following  September.  The  manager  had  written  to 
John,  after  the  business  preliminaries  were  settled,  to  say 
that  if  the  play  were  successful  in  Cottenham,  he  would 
include  it  in  the  Company's  repertoire  of  pieces  to  be  per- 
formed in  London  during  their  annual  season.  "And  of 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  315 

course,  it  '11  be  successful, ' '  said  John  when  he  had  read  the 
letter  to  Eleanor.  "I  should  think  we'd  easily  make  sev- 
eral hundred  pounds  out  of  the  play  .  .  .  and  there's  al- 
ways the  chance  that  it  may  be  a  popular  success!"  His 
high  hopes  were  dashed  by  the  return  of  his  novel  from 
Messrs.  Goodeii  and  Knight  who  regretted  that  the  novel 
was  not  suitable  for  publication  by  them ;  but  he  recovered 
some  of  them  when  he  reflected  that  the  fame  he  would 
achieve  with  his  play  would  cause  Messrs.  Gooden  and 
Knight  to  feel  exceedingly  sorry  that  they  had  not  jumped 
at  the  chance  of  publishing  his  book.  Hinde  had  read  it 
and  thought  it  was  as  good  as  most  first  novels.  ' ''  Nothing 
very  great  about  it,"  he  said,  "but  it  isn't  contemptible!" 
That  seemed  very  chilly  praise  to  John,  and  he  was  grateful 
to  Eleanor  for  her  enthusiasm  about  the  book.  "Of  course, 
it  has  faults,"  she  admitted.  "I  daresay  it  has,  but  then 
it's  your  first  book.  You  wouldn't  be  human  if  you  could 
write  a  great  book  at  the  first  attempt,  would  you  ? ' ' 

That  had  consoled  him  for  much,  and  very  hopefully  he 
sent  the  book  on  its  third  adventure,  this  time  to  Mr. 
Claude  Jannissary,  who  called  himself  "The  Progressive 
Publisher." 


11 

On  the  night  before  he  was  married,  John,  vaguely 
nervous,  left  his  mother  at  Miss  Squibb 's  and  went  for  a 
walk.  All  day,  he  had  been  "on  pins  and  needles,"  and 
now,  although  it  was  nine  o'clock,  he  could  not  remain  in 
the  house  any  longer.  He  felt  that  his  head  would  burst 
if  he  stayed  indoors.  The  house  seemed  to  be  unusually 
stuffy,  and  the  spectacle  of  Lizzie  gazing  at  him  with 
mawkish  interest,  made  him  wish  to  rise  up  and  assault  her. 
He  had  fidgetted  about  the  room,  taking  a  book  from  its 
shelf  and  then,  without  reading  in  it,  replacing  it,  until  his 
mother,  observing  him  with  cautious  eyes,  proposed  that  he 


316  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

should  go  for  a  walk.  ' '  I  won 't  wait  up  for  you, ' '  she  said, 
' '  so  you  needn  't  hurry  back ! ' ' 

' '  Very  well,  ma ! "  he  said,  getting  ready  to  go  out. 

He  left  the  house  and  started  to  walk  towards  Streatham, 
but  before  he  had  gone  very  far,  he  felt  drawn  away  from 
Streatham,  and  he  turned  and  walked  past  his  home  and 
on  towards  Kennington.  At  the  Horns,  he  paused  in- 
decisively. There  were  more  light  and  stir  towards  the 
Elephant  and  Castle  than  there  was  in  the  Kennington 
Road,  and  light  and  stir  were  attractive  to  him,  but  to-night 
he  ought  to  be  in  quiet  places  and  in  shadows.  He  was 
beginning  to  feel  dubious  about  himself.  Marriage,  after 
all,  was  a  very  serious  business,  but  here  he  was  thrusting 
himself  into  it  with  very  little  consideration.  Eleanor  had 
protested  all  along  that  they  were  insufficiently  acquainted 
with  each  other  and  had  pleaded  for  a  long  engagement, 
but  he  had  overruled  her:  they  knew  each  other  well 
enough.  The  best  way  for  a  man  and  woman  to  get  to 
know  each  other,  he  said,  was  to  marry.  Eleanor  had  ex- 
claimed against  that  doctrine  because,  she  said,  if  the  couple 
discovered  that  they  did  not  care  for  each  other,  they 
could  not  get  free  without  misery  and  possibly  disgrace. 

' '  You  have  to  run  the  risk  of  that, ' '  said  John. 

That  always  had  been  his  determining  argument:  that 
one  must  take  risks.  Now,  on  this  night  before  his  mar- 
riage, the  risk  he  was  about  to  take  alarmed  him.  The 
fidgettiness,  the  nervous  irritability  which  had  been  char- 
acteristic of  him  all  day  now  concretely  became  fright. 
Who  was  this  woman  he  was  about  to  marry?  What  did 
he  know  of  her  ?  She  was  a  pleasant,  nice-looking  girl  and 
she  had  an  extraordinary  power  over  him  .  .  .  but  what 
did  he  know  of  her?  Nothing.  Nothing  whatever.  He 
liked  kissing  her  and  holding  her  in  his  arms,  but  he  had 
liked  kissing  Maggie  Carmichael  and  holding  her  in  his 
arms;  and  now  he  was  very  thankful  he  had  not  married 
Maggie.  How  was  he  to  know  that  he  would  feel  any  more 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  317 

for  Eleanor  in  six  months'  time  than  he  now  felt  for  Maggie 
.  .  .  for  whom  he  had  once  felt  everything?  Eleanor  had 
told  him  that  she  only  liked  him  .  .  .  was  not  in  love  with 
him  .  .  .  that  he  was  one  of  a  hundred  men,  anyone  of 
whom  she  might  have  married  and  lived  with  in  tolerable 
happiness!  .  .  . 

A  cold  shiver  ran  through  his  body  as  he  thought  that  he 
might  be  about  to  make  the  greatest  mistake  that  any  man 
could  make  .  .  .  marry  the  wrong  woman.  Ought  he  to 
postpone  the  marriage  so  that  Eleanor  and  he  should  have 
more  time  in  which  to  consider  things?  Postponement 
would  mean  terrible  inconvenience  to  everybody,  but  it 
would  be  better  to  suffer  such  inconvenience  than  to  enter 
into  a  dismal  marriage  because  one  was  reluctant  to  upset 
arrangements.  This  marrying  was  a  terrible  affair!  .  .  . 
He  walked  steadily  along  the  Kennington  Road  and 
presently  found  himself  in  Westminster  Bridge  Road,  and 
then  he  crossed  the  river  and  turned  on  to  the  Embankment. 
There  was  a  cool  breeze  blowing  from  the  sea,  and  he  took 
his  hat  off  and  let  the  air  play  about  his  head.  He  leant 
against  the  parapet  and  gazed  across  the  water  to  the  dark 
warehouses  on  the  Lambeth  side  and  wondered  why  they 
were  so  beautiful  at  night  when  they  were  so  hideous  by 
day.  Even  the  railway  bridge  at  Charing  Cross  seemed  to 
be  beautiful  in  the  dusk,  and  when  a  train  rumbled  across 
it,  sending  up  clouds  of  lit  smoke  from  the  funnel  of  the 
engine  and  making  flickering  lights  as  the  carriages  rolled 
past  the  iron  bars  of  the  bridge-side,  it  seemed  to  him  to  be 
a  very  wonderful  and  appealing  spectacle.  His  fidgettiness 
fell  from  him  as  he  contemplated  the  swift  river  and  the 
great  dark  shapes  of  warehouses  and  the  black  hulks  of 
barges  going  down  to  the  Pool  and  the  immutable  loveliness 
of  Waterloo  Bridge.  He  had  walked  along  the  Embank- 
ment past  Hungerford  Bridge,  and  then  had  stopped  to 
look  at  Waterloo  Bridge  for  a  few  moments.  Even  the 


318  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

moving  lights  of  the  advertisements  of  tea  and  whiskey  on 
the  Lambeth  side  of  the  river  made  beauty  for  him  as  they 
were  reflected  in  the  water.  There  were  little  crinkled 
waves  of  green  and  red  and  gold  on  the  river  as  the  chang- 
ing lights  of  the  advertisements  ran  up  and  down.  .  .  .  He 
had  seen  articles  in  the  newspapers  protesting  against  these 
illuminated  signs  .  .  .  "the  ugly  symbols  of  commercial- 
ism" .  .  .  but  to-night  they  had  the  look  of  loveliness  in 
his  eyes.  Very  often  since  he  had  come  to  London  had  he 
found  himself  in  disagreement  with  the  views  of  men  who 
wrote  as  if  Almighty  God  had  committed  Beauty  to  their 
charge  ...  he  had  never  been  able  to  understand  or  agree 
with  their  arguments  against  great  engines  and  the  instru- 
ments of  power  and  energy  .  .  .  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
many  of  these  writers  were  querulous,  fractious  people 
who  had  not  the  capacity  to  make  themselves  at  ease  in  a 
striving  world.  That  poet  fellow  .  .  .  what  was  his  name  ? 
.  .  .  whom  he  had  met  at  Hampstead  .  .  .  Palfrey,  that 
was  the  man 's  name  .  .  .  had  sneered  at  Commerce !  John 
had  not  been  able  to  make  head  or  tail  of  his  arguments 
against  Commerce,  and  he  had  found  himself  defending  it 
against  the  Poet  ..."  the  very  word  is  beautiful ! "  he  had 
asserted  several  times  .  .  .  mainly  on  his  recollection  of  his 
Uncle  William.  Palfrey  had  had  the  best  of  the  argument, 
because  Palfrey  could  use  his  tongue  more  effectively,  but 
John  had  felt  certain  that  the  truth  was  not  in  Palfrey, 
and  here  to-night,  in  this  place  where  Commerce  was  most 
compactly  to  be  seen,  he  knew  that  there  was  Beauty  in  the 
labours  of  men,  that  bargaining  and  competition  and  striv- 
ing energies  and  rivalry  in  skill  were  elements  of  loveliness. 
"These  little  poets  sitting  in  their  stuffy  attics  scribbling 
about  the  moon!  .  .  .  Yah-rr-r!"  he  said,  putting  his  hat 
on  to  his  head  again. 

His  mind  was  quieter  now.  He  was  certain  of  his  love 
for  Eleanor.  How  wise  his  mother  had  been  to  suggest 
that  he  should  go  out  for  a  walk.  She  had  guessed,  no 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  319 

doubt,  that  he  was  ill  at  ease  and  full  of  doubt,  and  had 
sent  him  forth  to  find  rest  in  movement  and  ease  in  energy. 
It  was  a  great  comfort  to  have  his  mother  by  him  now. 
That  morning  he  had  looked  at  her,  sitting  in  the  light  of 
the  window,  and  had  seen  for  the  first  time  the  great 
depth  of  her  eyes  and  the  wonderful  patience  in  her  face. 
...  He  must  consider  her  more  in  future.  Eleanor  liked 
her,  and  she  liked  Eleanor.  That  was  all  to  the  good !  .  .  . 
Pie  must  go  home  now.  He  would  walk  to  Blackfriars 
Bridge,  cross  the  river  and  go  home  by  the  Elephant  and 
Castle.  He  started  to  walk  briskly  along  the  Embankment, 
but  he  had  not  gone  very  far  on  his  way  when  he  heard  his 
name  called. 

"Oh,  John!"  the  call  was,  and  looking  round,  he  saw 
Eleanor  rising  from  one  of  the  garden-seats  near  the  kerb. 

' '  Eleanor ! ' '  he  exclaimed.     ' '  What  are  you  doing  here  ? ' ' 

She  came  quickly  to  him  and  he  took  hold  of  her  hands. 

"I  was  frightened,"  she  said,  half  sobbing  as  she  spoke. 

"Frightened!" 

"Yes.  I  lost  my  nerve  this  evening  and  I  ...  I  came 
out  to  think.  Oh,  I  wonder  are  we  wise !  ..." 

He  drew  her  arm  in  his.  "Come  home,  my  dear,"  he 
said. 

He  led  her  across  the  road,  through  the  District  Railway 
Station  and  up  Villiers  Street  to  the  Strand,  and  as  they 
walked  along  he  told  her  of  his  own  fears.  "You  were 
frightened,  too?"  she  said  in  astonishment. 

' '  Not  frightened, ' '  he  replied, ' '  only  .  .  .  well,  dubious ! ' ' 

"Perhaps  we'd  better  wait,"  she  suggested. 

"Oh,  no,  no.  I  should  feel  such  a  fool  if  I  were  to  tell 
people  we'd  postponed  our  marriage  because  we'd  both  got 
scared  about  it ! " 

"It's  better  to  feel  a  fool  than!  ..." 

"And  anyhow  I  know  that  it's  all  right.  I  feel  sure 
it's  all  right.  When  I  walked  along  the  Embankment  be- 
fore I  met  you,  I  became  certain  that  I  wanted  you,  Eleanor, 


320  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

and  no  one  else  but  you.     My  dear,  I'm  terribly  happy!" 

"Are  you?" 

"Yes.  Why,  of  course,  I  am.  How  can  I  be  anything 
else  when  I  shall  be  your  husband  this  time  to-morrow. ' ' 

They  walked  along  Bond  Street  because  they  had  dis- 
covered that  Bond  Street,  when  the  shops  are  shut,  is  dark 
and  quiet,  and  once  they  stopped  and  faced  each  other,  and 
John  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  ' '  Sweetheart ! ' ' 
he  murmured,  with  his  lips  against  hers. 

Then  he  took  her  to  her  club.  "What  a  place  for  you  to 
be  married  from  ? "  he  said,  as  he  bade  her  good-night. 

"This  is  my  last  night  in  it,"  she  answered.  "I  shall 
never  live  in  a  place  where  there  are  only  women  again ! ' ' 
She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
added,  "Thank  Goodness!" 

iii 

On  the  following  morning  they  were  married ;  and  in  the 
evening  they  went  to  Ireland  for  their  honeymoon.  They 
were  to  go  to  Dublin  for  a  week,  and  then  up  to  Ballyards 
for  a  fortnight.  Eleanor  had  proposed  that  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dermott  should  cross  to  Ireland  with  them,  but  she  shook 
her  head  and  smiled.  "  I  'm  foolish  enough, ' '  she  said,  ' '  but 
I'm  not  as  foolish  as  all  that.  You'll  want  to  be  by  your- 
selves, my  dear ! ' ' 

"I'll  see  your  mother  safely  off  from  Buston,"  Hinde 
said,  "when  she  makes  up  her  mind  to  go !" 

They  spent  the  day  quietly  together  until  the  time  came 
for  Eleanor  and  John  to  go  to  the  railway  station.  Mrs. 
MacDermott  took  him  out  of  the  room.  "I  want  to  have  a 
wee  talk  with  you,"  she  said  in  explanation. 

"Here,"  she  said,  putting  an  envelope  into  his  hand. 
"That's  a  wedding  present  for  you  from  me!  ..." 

' '  But  you  've  given  me  one  already, ' '  he  interrupted. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  321 

"Oh,  aye,  that  was  just  an  ordinary  one,  but  this  is  the 
one  that  matters.  It'll  be  useful  to  you  sometime !" 

He  opened  the  envelope,  and  inside  it  were  ten  notes  for 
ten  pounds  each.  "Ma!"  he  said. 

' '  Now,  now,  never  mention  it, ' '  she  exclaimed  hurriedly. 
"What  does  an  old  woman  like  me  want  with  money  when 
there's  two  young  ones  in  need  of  it.  It'll  help  to  keep 
you  going  till  you're  earning!" 

He  hugged  her  to  show  his  gratitude.  "My  son,"  she 
said,  patting  his  back. 

"Listen,  John,"  she  went  on,  "while  I  speak  to  you!" 

"Yes,  ma!" 

' '  Don 't  forget  that  Eleanor 's  a  young  girl  with  no  one  to 
tell  her  things.  She's  very  young,  and  .  .  .  and!  .  .  ." 
She  stumbled  over  her  words.  "You'll  be  very  kind  to 
her,  won 't  you,  son  ? ' ' 

"Of  course,  I  will,  ma,"  John  replied  with  no  compre- 
hension whatever  of  what  it  was  she  was  trying  to  say. 

Then  she  let  him  go  back  to  Eleanor. 

They  gathered  in  the  hall  to  make  their  "Good-byes." 
There  was  a  telegram  from  the  Creams  to  wish  them  happi- 
ness that  Eleanor  insisted  on  taking  with  her  although  she 
had  never  seen  the  Creams;  and  Miss  Squibb  mournfully 
insisted  on  giving  a  packet  of  sandwiches  to  them  to  eat 
on  the  journey.  She  told  them  that  they  knew  what  these 
trains  and  boats  were  like,  and  that  they  would  be  lucky 
if  they  got  anything  at  all  to  sustain  them  during  their 
travels.  "Though  you  probably  won't  want  to  eat  nothink 
when  you  get  on  the  boat,"  she  added  encouragingly. 

' '  Good-bye !     Good-bye !     Good-bye ! ' ' 

John  went  up  the  hall  to  Lizzie.  "Good-bye,  Lizzie !"  he 
said,  and  then,  "What  on  earth  are  you  crying  for?" 

"I  dunno,"  she  answered,  wiping  her  eyes.  "Just 
'appiness,  I  s'pose.  I'll  be  doin'  it  myself  some  dy.  See 
if  I  down't.  It'd  annoy  aunt,  anyway!" 


322  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

They  scrambled  into  the  cab  and  were  driven  off.  They 
leant  back  against  the  cushions  and  looked  at  each  other. 

"Well,  we're  married,  Eleanor.  I  always  said  we  would 
be,"  John  said. 

' '  It 's  frightfully  funny, ' '  Eleanor  replied.     "  Isn  't  it  ? " 

He  did  not  answer.     He  took  her  in  his  arms  instead. 


THE  THIRD  BOOK 

OF 

THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 


Ask,  is  Love  divine, 
Voices  all  are,  ay. 
Question  for  the  sign, 
There's  a  common  sigh. 
Would  we  through  our  years, 
Love  forego, 
Quit  of  scars  and  tears  T 
Ah,  but  no,  no,  no! 

MEBEDITH. 


THE  FIRST  CHAPTER 


THE  honeymoon  at  Ballyards  had  been  a  triumph  for 
Eleanor.  Uncle  William  had  immediately  surrendered  to 
her,  making,  indeed,  no  pretence  to  resist  her.  She  had 
demanded  his  company  on  a  boating  excursion  on  the 
Lough,  and  when  he  had  turned  to  her,  sitting  behind  him 
in  the  bow  of  the  boat,  and  had  said,  "This  is  great  health ! 
It 's  the  first  time  I  've  been  in  a  boat  these  years  and  years ! ' ' 
she  had  retorted  indignantly,  "The  first  time !  But  why?" 

"Och  .  .  .  busy!"  he  had  explained. 

She  had  called  to  John,  sitting  with  his  mother  in  the 
stern,  and  demanded  an  explanation  of  the  causes  which 
prevented  Uncle  William  from  taking  holidays  like  other 
people. 

' '  Sure,  he  likes  work ! ' '  said  John. 

"Nobody  likes  work  to  that  extent,"  Eleanor  replied, 
and  then  Mrs.  MacDermott  gave  the  explanation.  "There's 
no  one  else  but  him  to  do  it,"  she  said.  "Uncle  Matthew 
had  his  head  full  of  romantic  dreams  and  John  fancied 
himself  in  other  ways,  so  Uncle  William  had  to  do  it  all  by 
himself!" 

John  flushed,  and  was  angry  with  his  mother  for  speaking 
in  this  way  before  Eleanor.  He  felt  that  she  was  stating 
the  case  unfairly.  Had  he  not  once  offered  to  quit  from 
his  monitorial  work  to  help  in  the  shop  and  had  not  his 
offer  been  firmly  refused  ?  .  .  . 

"There'll  be  no  need  for  Uncle  William  to  work  hard 
when  my  play  is  produced,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  quit  blethering  about  hard  work,"  Uncle  William 
exclaimed,  bending  to  the  oars.  "Sure,  I'd  be  demented 

325 


326  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

mad  if  I  hadn  't  my  work  to  do.  What  would  an  old  fellow 
like  me  do  gallivanting  up  and  down  the  shore  in  my  bare 
feet,  paddling  like  a  child  in  the  water?  Have  sense,  do, 
all  of  you.  Eleanor,  I'm  surprised  at  you  trying  to  make 
a  loafer  out  of  me ! " 

She  leant  forward  and  pulled  him  suddenly  backwards, 
and  he  fell  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  "We'll  all  be 
drowned, ' '  he  shouted.  "  I  '11  cowp  the  boat  if  you  assault 
me  again !  .  .  . " 

"What  does  'cowp'  mean?"  she  demanded. 

' '  In  God 's  name,  girl,  where  were  you  brought  up  not  to 
know  what  '  cowp '  means !  Upset ! ' '  said  he. 

' '  Well,  why  don 't  you  say  upset,  you  horrible  old  Orange- 
man," she  retorted. 

"I'm  no  Orangeman,"  he  giggled  at  her.  "I  wouldn't 
own  the  name ! ' ' 

' '  You  are.  You  are.  You  say  your  prayers  every  night 
to  King  William  and  Carson !  .  .  . " 

"Ah,  you're  the  tormenting  wee  tory,  so  you  are !  Here, 
take  a  hold  of  these  oars  and  do  something  for  your  living !  '1 

She  had  changed  places  with  Uncle  William,  and  John 
felt  very  proud  of  her  as  he  observed  the  skilful  way  in 
which  she  handled  the  oars.  Her  strokes  were  clean  and 
strong  and  deliberate.  She  did  not  thrust  the  oars  too 
deeply  into  the  water  nor  did  she  pull  them  impotently 
along  the  surface  nor  did  she  lean  too  heavily  on  one  oar  so 
that  the  boat  was  drawn  too  much  to  one  side  or  sent  un- 
gainly to  this  side  and  to  that  in  an  exhausting  effort  to 
keep  a  straight  course.  He  lay  back  against  his  mother 
and  regarded  Eleanor  out  of  half-shut  eyes.  She  mystified 
him.  Her  timidity  when  he  had  first  spoken  to  her  had 
seemed  to  him  then  to  be  her  chief  characteristic  and  it  had 
caused  him  to  feel  tenderly  for  her:  he  would  be  her  pro- 
tector. But  she  was  not  always  timid.  He  had  discovered 
courage  in  her  and  something  uncommonly  like  obstinacy 
of  mind.  She  uttered  opinions  which  startled  him,  less  be- 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  327 

cause  of  the  flimsy  grounds  on  which  they  were  built,  than 
because  of  the  queer  chivalry  that  made  her  utter  them. 
She  defended  the  weak  because  they  were  weak,  whereas  he 
would  have  had  her  defend  the  truth  because  it  was  the 
truth.  The  attacked  had  her  sympathy,  whether  they  were 
in  the  right  or  in  the  wrong,  and  John  demanded  that  sym- 
pathy should  be  given  only  to  those  who  were  in  the  right 
even  if  they  happened  also  to  be  the  stronger  of  the  con- 
testants. He  had  seen  her  behaving  with  extraordinary 
calmness  at  a  time  when  he  had  been  certain  that  she  would 
show  signs  of  hysteria,  and  while  he  was  marvelling  at  her 
imperturbability,  he  had  heard  her  screaming  with  fright  at 
the  sight  of  an  ear-wig.  He  had  rushed  to  her  help,  imagin- 
ing that  she  was  in  terrible  danger,  and  had  found  her 
trembling  and  shuddering  because  this  pitiful  insect  had 
crawled  on  to  her  dressing-gown.  .  .  .  He  had  been  very 
frightened  when  he  heard  her  screaming  to  him  for  help, 
and  he  suffered  so  strange  a  reaction  when  he  discovered 
that  her  trouble  was  trivial  that  he  lost  his  temper.  ' '  Don 't 
be  such  a  fool,"  he  said,  putting  his  foot  on  the  ear-wig. 
"You  couldn't  have  made  more  noise  if  someone  had  been 
murdering  you ! ' ' 

"I  hate  ear-wigs!"  she  replied,  still  shuddering.  "I 
hate  all  crawly  things.  Oh-h-h!" 

And  here  was  another  aspect  of  her:  her  skill  in  doing 
things  that  required  effort  and  thought.  She  handled  a 
boat  better  than  he  could  handle  it.  He  was  more  aston- 
ished at  this  feat  than  he  had  been  when  he  discovered  that 
she  had  great  skill  in  managing  a  house  and  in  cooking  food, 
for  he  assumed  that  all  women  were  inspired  by  Almighty 
God  with  a  genius  for  housekeeping  and  that  only  a  de- 
liberately sinful  nature  prevented  a  woman  from  serving 
her  husband  with  an  excellently-prepared  dinner.  In  a 
vague  way,  he  had  imagined  that  Eleanor  would  need 
instruction  in  housekeeping,  but  that  she  would  "soon  pick 
it  up. "  Any  woman  could  ' '  soon  pick  it  up. ' '  His  mother, 


328  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

he  decided,  would  give  tips  to  Eleanor  while  they  were  at 
Ballyards,  and  thereafter  things  would  go  very  smoothly. 
He  had  determined  that  the  flat  at  Hampstead  which  they 
had  rented  should  be  furnished  according  to  his  taste  so 
that  there  should  be  no  mistake  about  it;  but  when  they 
began  to  choose  furniture,  he  found  that  Eleanor  had  better 
judgment  than  he  had,  and  he  wisely  deferred  to  her 
opinion.  He  was  inclined,  he  discovered,  to  accept  things 
which  he  disliked  or  did  not  want  rather  than  take  the 
trouble  to  get  only  the  things  he  desired  and  appreciated ; 
but  Eleanor  had  no  compunction  in  making  a  disinterested 
shop-assistant  run  about  and  fetch  and  carry  until  she  had 
either  obtained  the  thing  for  which  she  wished  or  was 
satisfied  that  it  was  not  in  the  shop.  John  always  had  a 
sense  of  shame  at  leaving  a  shop  without  making  a  purchase 
when  the  assistant  had  been  given  much  bother  in  their 
behalf;  but  Eleanor  said  that  this  was  silliness.  "That's 
what  he's  there  for,"  she  said  of  the  shop-assistant.  "I'm 
not  going  to  buy  things  I  don't  want  just  because  you're 
afraid  of  hurting  his  feelings ! ' ' 

He  began  to  feel,  while  they  were  furnishing  their  flat, 
that  she  knew  her  own  mind  at  least  as  well  as  he  knew  his, 
and  a  fear  haunted  his  thoughts  that  perhaps  this  adequacy 
of  knowledge  might  bring  trouble  to  them.  Gradually  he 
found  himself  consulting  her  as  an  equal,  even  accepting 
her  advice,  and  seldom  instructing  her  as  one  instructs  a 
beloved  pupil.  AVhen  she  required  advice,  she  asked  for  it. 
At  Ballyards,  he  had  seen  his  mother  quickening  into  zest- 
ful  life  because  of  Eleanor 's  desire  to  be  informed  of  things. 
One  evening  he  had  come  home  from  a  visit  to  Mr.  Cairnduff 
to  find  Eleanor  seated  on  the  high  stool  in  the  "Counting 
House"  of  the  shop  while  Uncle  William  explained  the 
working  of  the  business  to  her. 

' '  She 's  a  great  wee  girl,  that ! ' '  Uncle  William  said  after- 
wards to  John.  "The  great  wee  girl!  You've  done  well 
for  yourself  marrying  her,  my  son.  She 's  a  well-brought-up 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  329 

girl  ...  a  girl  with  a  family  .  .  .  and  that 's  more  nor  you 
could  say  for  some  of  the  women  you  might  'a'  married. 
That  Logan  girl,  now!  ..." 

"  I  'd  never  have  married  her, ' '  John  interrupted. 

"No,  I  suppose  you  wouldn't.  They're  no  family  at  all, 
the  Logans  .  .  .  just  a  dragged-up,  thrown-together  lot. 
They've  no  pride  in  themselves.  They'd  marry  anybody, 
that  family  would.  Willie's  away  to  the  bad  altogether 
.  .  .  drinking  and  gambling  and  worse  .  .  .  and  Aggie  got 
married  on  a  traveller  from  Belfast,  and  two  hours  after  she 
married  the  man,  he  was  dead  drunk.  He's  been  drunk 
ever  since,  they  say.  Aw,  she 's  a  poor  mouth,  that  woman, 
and  not  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to  Eleanor.  I  'm  thankful  glad 
you've  married  a  sensible  woman  with  her  head  on  the 
right  way,  and  not  one  of  these  flyaway  pieces  you  see 
knocking  around  these  times.  I'd  die  of  despair  to  see  you 
married  to  a  woman  with  no  more  gumption  than  an  old 
hen!  .  .  ." 

ii 

He  had  experienced  his  most  humiliating  defect  in  com- 
parison with  Eleanor  on  board  the  mail-boat  from  Kings- 
town to  Holyhead.  He  had  been  sea-sick,  but  she  had 
seemed  unaware  of  the  fact  that  she  was  afloat  on  a  rough 
sea.  That  terribly  swift  race  of  water  that  beats  against  a 
boat  off  Ilolyhead  and  causes  the  least  queasy  of  stomachs 
a  certain  amount  of  discomposure,  affected  Eleanor  not  at 
all ;  and  when  they  disembarked,  it  was  she  who  found  com- 
fortable seats  in  the  London  train  for  them  and  saw  to  their 
luggage;  for  John  still  felt  ill  and  miserable.  "Poor  old 
thing,"  she  said,  "you  do  look  a  sight!" 

iii 

Mrs.  MacDermott  had  begged  him  to  stay  beyond  the 
stipulated  time  in  Ballyards,  and  Uncle  "William,  with  a 


330  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

glance  towards  Eleanor,  had  reinforced  her  appeal;  but 
John  had  refused  to  yield  to  it.  There  was  work  to  be  done 
in  London,  and  Eleanor  and  he  must  return  to  town  to  do 
it.  In  a  short  while,  his  play  would  be  produced  ...  he 
must  attend  the  rehearsals  of  it  ...  and  then  there  was 
his  novel  for  which  he  had  yet  to  find  a  publisher;  and  he 
must  write  another  book.  Eleanor  had  hesitated  for  a  few 
moments,  not  irresponsive  to  Uncle  William's  look,  but  the 
desire  to  be  in  her  own  home  had  conquered  her  desire  to 
remain  in  Ballyards,  and  so  she  had  not  asked  John  to  stay 
away  from  London  any  longer.  The  flat  was  a  small  and 
incommodious  one,  but  it  was  in  a  quiet  street  and  not  very 
far  from  Hampstead  Heath.  They  had  spent  more  money 
on  furnishing  it  than  they  had  intended  to  spend,  but  John 
had  soothed  Eleanor's  mind  by  promising  that  his  play 
would  more  than  make  up  for  their  extravagance;  and 
when,  a  fortnight  after  their  return  to  town,  Mr.  Claude 
Jannissary,  "the  Progressive  Publisher,"  wrote  to  John 
and  invited  him  to  call  on  him,  they  felt  certain  that  their 
anxieties  had  been  very  foolish.  John  visited  Mr.  Jannis- 
sary on  the  morning  after  he  had  received  that  enlightened 
gentleman's  letter,  and  was  overwhelmed  by  the  praise 
paid  to  his  book.  Mr.  Jannissary  said  that  he  was  not 
merely  willing,  but  actually  eager  to  publish  it.  He  felt 
certain  that  its  author  had  a  great  future  before  him,  and 
he  wished  to  be  able  to  say  in  after  years  that  he  had  been 
the  first  to  recognize  John's  genius.  He  did  not  anticipate 
that  he  would  make  any  profit  whatever  out  of  The  En- 
chanted Lover  .  .  .  the  title  of  the  story  ...  at  all  events 
for  several  years,  partly  because  John  still  had  to  create  a 
reputation  for  himself  and  partly  because  of  the  appalling 
conditions  with  which  enlightened  publishers  had  to  con- 
tend. In  time,  no  doubt,  John  would  attract  a  substantial 
body  of  loyal  readers,  but  in  the  meantime  there  was,  if 
John  would  forgive  the  gross  commercialism  of  the  expres- 
sion, "no  immediate  money  in  him."  Nevertheless,  Mr. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  331 

Jannissary  was  prepared  to  gamble  on  John's  future. 
Even  if  he  should  never  make  enough  to  cover  the  expense 
of  publishing  John's  book,  he  would  still  feel  compensated 
for  his  loss  merely  through  having  introduced  the  world 
to  so  excellent  a  novel.  Idealism  was  not  very  popular,  he 
said,  but  thank  God  he  was  an  idealist.  He  believed  in 
Art  and  Literature  and  Beauty,  and  he  was  prepared  to 
make  sacrifices  for  his  beliefs.  He  could  not  offer  any  pay- 
ment in  advance  on  account  of  royalties  to  John  .  .  .  much 
as  he  would  like  to  do  so  ...  for  the  conditions  with  which 
an  enlightened  publisher  who  tried  to  preserve  his  ideals 
intact  had  to  contend  were  truly  appalling;  but  he  would 
publish  the  book  immediately  if  John  would  consent  to 
forego  all  royalties  on  the  first  five  hundred  copies,  and 
would  accept  a  royalty  of  ten  per  cent  on  all  copies  sold 
in  excess  of  that  number,  the  royalty  to  rise  to  fifteen  per 
cent  when  the  copies  sold  exceeded  two  thousand.  Mr. 
Jannissary  would  put  himself  to  the  great  inconvenience  of 
trying  to  find  a  publisher  for  the  book  in  America,  and 
would  only  expect  to  receive  twenty-five  per  cent  of  the 
author's  proceeds  for  his  trouble.  .  .  . 

John  had  not  greatly  liked  the  look  of  Mr.  Claude 
Jannissary.  So  uncompromising  an  idealist  might  have 
been  expected  to  possess  a  more  pleasing  appearance  and  a 
less  shifty  look  in  his  eyes  .  .  .  but  soothed  vanity  and 
youthful  eagerness  to  appear  in  print  and  a  feeling  that 
very  often  appearances  were  against  idealists,  caused  him 
to  sign  the  agreement  which  Mr.  Jannissary  had  already 
prepared  for  him.  A  great  thrill  of  pleasure  went  through 
him  as  he  signed  the  long  document,  full  of  involved 
clauses.  He  was  now  entitled  to  call  himself  an  author. 
In  a  little  while,  a  book  of  his  would  be  purchaseable  in 
bookshops.  .  .  .  "We'll  print  immediately,"  said  Mr.  Jan- 
nissary, handing  a  copy  of  the  agreement,  signed  by  himself, 
to  John  and  putting  the  other  copy  carefully  away.  "I'm 


332  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

sure  the  book  will  be  a  great  success  .  .  .  artistically,  at  all 
events  .  .  .  and  after  all,  that's  the  chief  thing.  That's 
the  chief  thing.  Ah,  Art,  Art,  Mr.  MacDermott,  what  a 
compelling  thing  it  is !  I  often  feel  that  I  have  thrown  my 
life  away  ever  since  I  resolved  to  publish  books  instead  of 
writing  them.  There  are  times  when  I  long  to  throw  up 
everything  and  run  away  into  the  country  and  meditate. 
Meditate!  But  one  can't  escape  from  the  bonds  of  the 
body,  Mr.  MacDermott ! ' ' 

' '  Oh,  no, ' '  John  vaguely  answered. 

"The  world  is  too  much  for  us  ...  poor,  bewildered 
idealists,  searching  for  the  gleam  and  so  often  losing  it. 
Rent  has  to  be  paid,  butchers  demand  payment  for  their 
meat  ...  I'm  speaking  figuratively,  of  course,  for  I'm  a 
vegetarian  myself  .  .  .  and  one  must  pay  one's  way.  So 
the  body  has  us,  and  we  have  to  compromise.  Ah,  yes! 
But  at  the  bottom  of  Pandora's  box,  Mr.  MacDermott, 
there  is  always.  .  .  .  Hope!  This  way,  please,  and  good 
afternoon !  It 's  been  very  nice  indeed  to  meet  you !  .  .  . " 

Hinde  had  disturbed  John's  complacency  very  consider- 
ably when  he  saw  the  agreement  which  John  had  signed. 
Eleanor  had  begun  the  process  by  failing  to  understand 
why  the  first  five  hundred  copies  of  the  novel  should  be 
published  free  of  royalty.  If  Mr.  Jannissary  was  to  make 
money  out  of  these  five  hundred  copies  why  was  John  not 
to  make  any?  He  quelled  her  doubts  momentarily  by  in- 
forming her  that  she  was  totally  ignorant  of  the  conditions 
of  publishing.  If  she  only  knew  how  appalling  they  were ! 
.  .  .  Mr.  Jannissary  had  so  impressed  John  with  the 
terrible  state  of  the  publisher's  business  that  he  had  gone 
away  from  the  office  feeling  exceedingly  fortunate  to  have 
his  book  published  at  all  without  being  asked  to  pay  for  it. 
Eleanor's  doubts,  however,  had  revived  when  Hinde,  who 
dined  with  them  on  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  the 
agreement  had  been  signed,  declared  with  extraordinary 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  333 

emphasis  that  Mr.  Jannissary  was  a  common  robber  and 
would,  if  he  had  his  way,  be  enduring  torture  in  gaol. 

"He's  a  notorious  little  scoundrel  who  has  been  living 
for  years  on  robbing  young  authors  by  flattering  their 
vanity.  I  suppose  he  told  you  you  were  a  marvel  and 
bleated  about  his  ideals?" 

John  could  not  deny  that  Mr.  Jannissary  had  spoken  of 
his  ideals  several  times  during  their  interview. 

"I  know  him,  the  greasy  little  bounder!"  Hinde  ex- 
claimed. "You'll  never  get  one  farthing  from  that  book 
of  yours,  for  he  won't  print  more  than  five  hundred 
copies!  ..." 

' '  He  will  if  they  're  demanded. ' ' 

"If  they're  demanded.     Do  you  think  they  will  be?" 

"I  hope  so!" 

"Oh,  we  can  all  hope,  but  there's  not  much  chance  of 
you  realising  your  hope.  Your  book  isn't  a  very  good 
one  !...*'  Eleanor  glanced  up  at  this.  She  had  not  felt 
very  certain  about  John's  book  herself,  but  now  that  Hinde 
was  belittling  it,  she  was  angry  with  him. 

"/  think  it's  good,"  she  said  decisively. 

"Even  if  it  is,"  Hinde  retorted,  "it  will  only  sell  well 
if  it's  advertised  well.  Lots  of  good  books  don't  sell  even 
when  they  are  advertised.  But  Jannissary  doesn't  adver- 
tise. He  hasn't  got  enough  money  to  advertise.  Look  at 
the  newspapers !  How  many  times  do  you  see  Jannissary 's 
list  in  the  advertisements!"  John  could  not  remember. 
"Very  seldom,"  said  Hinde.  "His  books  get  less  attention 
from  reviewers  than  other  people's  because  the  reviewers 
know  that  he's  a  rascal  and  that  nine  out  of  ten  of  his 
books  aren't  worth  the  paper  they're  printed  on.  Book- 
sellers will  hardly  stock  them.  He  makes  his  living  by 
selling  copies  to  the  libraries  and  persuading  mugs  to  pay 
for  the  publication  of  their  books.  That's  how  Jannissary 
lives!  .  ." 


334  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

' '  He  didn  't  ask  me  to  pay  for  publishing  my  book, ' '  John 
murmured. 

"That's  a  wonder,"  Hinde  replied.  "Why  didn't  you 
ask  for  advice  before  you  signed  this  thing  ? ' ' 

"I  want  the  book  published  as  soon  as  possible.  I  have 
to  make  my  name  and  I  daresay  I  shall  have  to  pay  for 
making  it ! " 

Hinde  put  the  agreement  down.  "Oh,  well,  if  you  look 
at  it  like  that,"  he  said,  "there's  no  more  to  be  said,  but 
you've  done  a  silly  thing!" 

"I  don't  see  it,"  John  boldly  asserted,  though  there  was 
doubt  in  his  mind. 

' '  You  '11  see  it  some  day ! ' ' 

Hinde  had  parted  from  them  earlier  that  evening  than 
he  had  intended  or  they  had  expected.  He  made  an  excuse 
for  leaving  them  by  saying  that  he  was  tired  and  needed 
sleep  after  late  nights  of  work,  but  he  went  because  John's 
vanity  had  been  hurt  by  his  criticism  of  the  agreement  and 
also  because  he  had  said  that  John's  book  had  no  remark- 
able qualities.  "I'm  telling  you  the  truth  that  you're 
always  demanding,  and  I  won't  tell  you  anything  else. 
You  've  been  very  anxious  to  tell  it  to  other  people  and  now 
you'll  have  a  chance  of  hearing  it  yourself.  Your  book  is 
not  a  good  book.  There  are  dozens  like  it  published  every 
year.  The  Sensation  reviews  them  six-a-time  in  three  or 
four  hundred  words.  You  may  write  good  books  some  day, 
but  The  Enchanted  Lover  is  just  an  ordinary,  mediocre 
book.  I  think  your  tragedy  is  better !  .  .  . " 

' '  Well,  it  ought  to  be.  It  was  written  afterwards, ' '  John 
said,  trying  hard  to  speak  without  revealing  resentment. 

' '  Yes.     Yes,  of  course ! ' '  Hinde  murmured. 

A  little  later,  he  had  taken  his  leave  of  them. 

' '  I  wonder  if  he 's  right ! ' '  Eleanor  said  to  John  when  he 
had  gone. 

"Of  course  he  isn't,"  John  tartly  replied.  "I  believe 
he's  jealous!" 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  335 

"Jealous!" 

"Yes.  He's  been  talking  for  years  of  writing  a  tragedy 
about  St.  Patrick,  but  he's  not  done  it,  and  then  I  come 
along  and  do  it  quite  easily  and  get  the  play  accepted. 
And  my  novel's  to  be  published,  too.  Of  course  he's 
jealous!  Any  disappointed  man's  jealous  when  he  sees 
someone  else  doing  things  he's  failed  to  do.  I'm  sorry  for 
him  really ! ' ' 

"Perhaps  that  is  it,"  Eleanor  said,  taking  comfort  to 
herself. 

"No  doubt  about  it.  Anyhow,  even  if  the  novel  is  a 
failure,  there's  the  play.  That's  good.  I  know  it's  good. 
The  novel  was  bound  to  have  some  faults.  All  first  books 
have!" 


IV 

Then  came  the  disappointment  of  the  tragedy.  The 
manager  of  the  Cottenham  Repertory  Theatre  wrote  to  say 
that  they  were  compelled  to  postpone  the  production  of  it 
for  a  few  weeks  because  their  season  had  been  unfortunate 
and  they  were  eager  to  replenish  their  treasury  by  the  pro- 
duction of  popular  pieces.  They  all  admired  John's  play 
very  much  and  were  quite  certain  that  it  would  be  a  great 
artistic  success,  but  its  tragical  nature  made  it  unlikely 
to  be  profitable  to  any  of  them  just  at  present.  .  .  . 

"It's  funny  how  these  people  keep  on  talking  about 
artistic  success  when  they  think  a  thing  isn't  going  to  be 
any  good,"  Eleanor  said  when  he  had  finished  reading  the 
letter  to  her. 

"No  good!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  do  you  mean,  no 
good!" 

"Well  ...  of  course  I  don't  mean  that  your  play  isn't 
any  good  .  .  .  only  I  begin  to  feel  doubtful  about  things 
when  I  hear  the  word  artistic  mentioned." 

"They're  only  postponing  the  play  for  a  short  while 


336  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

until  they  've  got  enough  money  together  to  keep  on.  That 's 
reasonable,  isn  't  it  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes.  It's  reasonable.  I'm  not  saying  anything 
about  that  .  .  .  only  it 's  a  disappointment ! ' ' 

"I'm  disappointed  myself,"  he  said,  ruefully  contem- 
plating the  letter. 

' '  How  much  do  you  think  you  11  make  out  of  it,  John  ? ' ' 
Eleanor  asked  pensively. 

"Make?  Oh,  I  don't  know.  About  a  hundred  pounds 
or  so  on  the  first  performances  .  .  .  and  then  there's  the 
London  season  .  .  .  and  of  course  if  the  play's  a  great 
success,  we  shall  make  our  fortune.  But  I  think  we  can 
reckon  on  a  hundred  pounds  anyhow.  I  don't  want  to 
expect  too  much.  Why  do  you  ask  ? ' ' 

"Well,  I'm  getting  anxious  about  money.  You  see, 
dear,  you  haven't  earned  much  since  we  got  married,  have 
you?" 

"No,  not  much.  One  or  two  articles  in  the  Sensation. 
But  you  needn't  worry  about  that.  I'll  look  after  the 
money  part.  Don't  you  worry!" 

"Perhaps  you  could  get  a  regular  job  on  the  Evening 
Herald  now  that  Mr.  Hinde's  in  charge  of  it,"  she  sug- 
gested. 

Hinde  had  recently  been  appointed  editor  of  the  Evening 
Herald. 

"Oh,  no,  Eleanor,  I  don't  want  a  journalist's  job.  I'm 
a  writer  ...  an  artist  .  .  .  not  a  reporter.  Besides,  I 
shouldn't  have  time  to  work  at  the  book  I'm  doing  now. 
Look  at  Hinde.  He  never  has  time  to  do  anything  but 
journalism.  The  worst  of  work  like  that  is  that  after  a 
time  you  can't  do  anything  else.  You  think  in  para- 
graphs! ..." 

' '  Supposing  the  play  isn 't  a  success  ...  I  mean  a  finan- 
cial success?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  I'll  make  money  for  you  some  other  way.  Leave 
it  to  me,  Eleanor.  I'm  pretty  confident  about  myself.  I 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  337 

feel  convinced  that  the  play  and  the  novel  will  be  successful 
financially  as  well  as  artistically.  I've  always  been  con- 
fident about  myself!" 

"Yes." 

"And  I  feel  quite  confident  about  this.  So  don't  worry 
your  head  any  more  like  a  good  girl ! ' ' 

The  receipt  of  the  proofs  and  the  excitement  of  correct- 
ing them  caused  Eleanor  to  forget  her  anxiety  about  their 
finances.  John  and  she  sat  in  front  of  the  fire,  she  with 
one  batch  of  galley  sheets  in  her  lap,  he  with  another; 
and  he  read  the  story  to  her,  correcting  misprints  and 
making  alterations  as  he  went  along,  while  she  copied  the 
corrections  on  to  her  proofs. 

' '  Do  you  like  it  ? "  he  asked,  eager  for  her  praise. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  leaning  her  head  against  his  shoulder, 
"I  do  like  it.  It's  ...  it 's  quite  good,  isn 't  it  ?" 

He  imagined  that  there  was  a  note  of  dubiety  in  her 
voice,  but  he  did  not  press  her  for  greater  praise,  and  they 
finished  the  correction  of  the  proofs  and  sent  them  to  Mr. 
Claude  Jannissary  as  quickly  as  they  could. 

"What  does  it  feel  like  to  have  written  a  book?"  Eleanor 
said  to  him  when  the  proofs  had  been  dispatched. 

"Fine,"  he  replied.  "I  wish  my  Uncle  Matthew  were 
alive.  He  'd  feel  very  proud  of  me ! " 

"I'm  proud  of  you,"  she  said,  drawing  nearer  to  him. 

"Are  you?"  he  exclaimed,  his  eyes  brightening.  He 
put  his  arm  round  her  neck  and  she  took  hold  of  his  hand. 
"Do  you  like  me  better  now,  Eleanor,  than  you  did  when 
we  were  married?" 

' '  Oh,  yes,  dear,  of  course  I  do. " 

"Do  you  remember  that  night  on  the  Embankment  when 
we  were  both  so  scared  of  getting  married  ? ' ' 

"Yes.  Weren't  we  silly?  I  very  nearly  ran  away  that 
night  .  .  .  only  I  didn't  know  where  to  run  to.  I  was 
awfully  frightened,  John.  I  thought  we  were  both  making 
terrible  mistakes !  . 


338  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Well,  we  haven't  regretted  it  yet,  have  we?" 

"No,  not  yet.     So  far  our  marriage  has  been  successful!" 

"I  told  you  it  would  be  all  right,  didn't  I?     I  knew  I 

could  make  you  happy.     You're  such  a  darling  .  .  .  how 

could  I  help  loving  you  ? ' ' 


The  novel  was  published  in  the  same  week  that  the  tragedy 
was  produced  at  the  Cottenham  Repertory  Theatre.  John 
had  intended  to  be  present  at  all  the  rehearsals  of  his  play, 
but  the  manager  of  the  theatre  informed  him  that  this  was 
hardly  necessary.  It  would  be  sufficient  if  he  were  to 
attend  the  last  two  and  the  dress  rehearsal,  and  when  John 
considered  the  state  of  his  work  on  the  second  novel,  he 
decided  to  accept  the  manager's  advice.  "After  all,"  he 
said  to  Eleanor,  "I  don't  know  anything  at  all  about  pro- 
ducing plays  and  this  chap  spends  his  life  at  the  job,  so  I 
can  safely  leave  it  to  him ! ' ' 

The  complimentary  copies  of  his  novel  reached  him  on 
the  evening  before  he  was  to  travel  to  Cottenham  to  attend 
his  first  rehearsal.  He  opened  the  parcel  with  trembling 
fingers  and  took  out  the  six  red-covered  volumes  and  spread 
them  on  the  table.  He  liked  the  bold  black  letters  in  which 
the  title  of  the  book  and  his  name  were  printed  on  the 
covers:  THE  ENCHANTED  LOVER  by  JOHN  MAC- 
DERMOTT.  It  seemed  incredible  to  him  that  a  book 
should  bear  his  name,  but  there,  in  big,  black  letters  on  a 
red  ground,  was  his  name.  He  turned  the  pages,  reading  a 
sentence  here  and  a  sentence  there  until  Eleanor,  who  had 
been  out  when  the  parcel  arrived,  came  in. 

"Look!"  he  said,  holding  one  of  the  books  towards  her. 

She  exclaimed  with  delight  and  ran  forward  to  take  the 
book  from  him.  "Oh,  my  dear,"  she  said,  clasping  the 
novel  with  one  hand  while  she  embraced  him  with  the  other. 
"I'm  so  proud  of  you,  you  clever  creature !" 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  339 

He  was  greatly  moved  by  her  affection,  and  he  felt  that 
he  wanted  to  cry.  There  were  very  queer  sensations  in 
his  throat,  and  he  had  tremendous  difficulty  in  keeping  his 
eyes  from  blinking. 

"It's  rather  nice?"  he  said,  touching  the  book. 

"It's  lovely,"  she  said.  She  went  to  the  table.  "Are 
these  the  others?"  She  drew  a  chair  forward  and  sat 
down.  "Let's  send  them  out  to-night.  This  one  to  your 
mother  and  this  one  to  Uncle  William.  I  '11  keep  this  one ! ' ' 
She  opened  the  book  at  the  dedication  "To  Eleanor." 
"Here,"  she  said,  "write  your  name  in  it!"  He  found  a 
pen  and  ink  and  wrote  under  the  dedication,  "from  her 
devoted  husband, ' '  and  when  she  saw  what  he  had  written, 
she  hugged  him  and  told  him  again  that  she  was  proud  of 
him. 

"What  about  the  others?  Are  you  going  to  send  them 
out,  too?"  she  asked,  and  he  proposed  to  her  that  one 
should  be  sent  to  Hinde,  one  to  Mr.  Cairnduff  and  one  to 
Mr.  McCaughan.  .  .  . 

"We  shan't  have  any  left,  except  my  copy,  if  you  do 
that!"  she  objected. 

' '  We  can  easily  get  some  more, ' '  he  replied. 

"I'd  like  to  send  one  to  that  beastly  cousin  in  Exeter 
just  to  let  him  see  how  clever  you  are.  He  hadn't  the 
decency  to  send  us  a  wedding  present,  the  stingy  miser ! ' ' 

They  packed  up  the  books  after  John  had  inscribed  them, 
and  went  off  to  the  post-office  together  to  send  them  off. 

"Won't  it  be  fun  reading  the  reviews?"  said  John  as 
they  walked  up  High  Street. 

"I  hope  they'll  like  it,  the  people  who  review  it,"  she 
answered.  "Don't  let's  go  in  just  yet.  Let's  walk  along 
the  Spaniards'  Road  a  little  while!" 

They  walked  up  Heath  Street,  and  when  they  came  to 
the  railings  above  The  Vale  of  Health,  they  stood  against 
them  and  looked  towards  London.  A  blue  haze  had  settled 
over  the  city  and  the  trees  were  like  long  hanging  veils 


340  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

through  which  little,  yellow  lights  from  the  street-lamps 
shone  like  tiny  jewels.  The  air  was  full  of  drowsy  sounds, 
as  if  the  earth  were  happily  tired  and  were  resting  for  a 
while  before  the  pleasures  of  the  night  began. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  back  to  your  club,  Eleanor?" 
John  said. 

"Silly  old  silly!"  she  replied,  pinching  his  arm. 

' '  I  feel  as  if  I  want  to  tell  everybody  that  you  've  written 
a  book  and  a  play,"  she  said,  as  they  walked  on.  "It 
doesn't  seem  right  that  all  these  people  don't  know  about 
you!" 

He  went  to  Cottenham  on  the  next  day,  carrying  with 
him  an  early  edition  of  the  Evening  Herald  in  which  Hinde 
had  printed  a  very  flattering  review  of  The  Enchanted 
Lover.  Eleanor  had  been  puzzled  by  the  promptness  with 
which  the  review  had  appeared  until  John  explained  to  her 
that  review  copies  of  books  were  sent  to  the  newspapers  a 
week  or  a  fortnight  before  the  date  of  publication. 

"It's  a  very  good  review,"  she  said.  "I  thought  he 
didn't  like  the  book  much!" 

"So  did  I.  I  hope  he  isn't  just  writing  like  this  to 
please  me.  I  don 't  want  insincere  reviews !  .  .  . " 

"I  expect,"  said  Eleanor,  "he  didn't  tell  you  how  much 
he  really  liked  it ! " 

"Hmmm!     Perhaps  that's  it,"  John  replied. 

He  put  the  paper  in  his  pocket,  and  as  the  train  drew 
out  of  Euston  and  started  on  its  journey  to  Cottenham,  he 
speculated  on  the  sincerity  of  Hinde 's  review.  He  took 
the  paper  out  of  his  pocket  and  read  it  again.  The  review 
was  headed,  "A  KEMARKABLE  FIRST  NOVEL"  and 
was  full  of  phrases  that  seemed  fulsome  even  to  John. 
"We  prophesy  that  this  notable  novel  will  have  a  very 
great  success  among  the  reading  public.  It  is  certainly 
the  finest  story  of  its  kind  that  has  been  published  in  this 
country  for  a  generation." 

"I  wouldn't  have  said  that  about  it  myself,"  John  re- 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  341 

fleeted.  ' '  Of  course,  I  'd  like  to  think  it 's  true,  but !  .  .  .  I 
hope  this  isn't  just  logrolling!"  He  remembered  how 
fiercely  Hinde  had  described  the  back-scratching,  high- 
minded  poets  who  boomed  each  other  in  their  papers.  "I 
don't  want  to  get  praise  that  way,"  he  thought,  putting 
the  paper  back  into  his  pocket.  "I'll  order  half-a-dozen 
copies  of  the  Herald  when  I  get  back  from  Cottenham.  My 
Uncle  William  will  be  glad  of  a  copy,  and  so  will  Mr. 
Cairnduff  and  the  minister!  .  ." 


vi 

The  Cottenham  Repertory  Theatre  was  a  dingy,  ill-built 
house  in  a  back  street  in  Cottenham.  It  had  been  a  music- 
hall  of  a  low  class  until  the  earnest  playgoers  of  Cottenham, 
extremely  anxious  about  the  condition  of  the  drama,  formed 
themselves  into  a  society  to  improve  the  theatre.  By  dint 
of  agitation  and  much  hard  work,  they  contrived  to  get 
enough  money  together  to  take  the  music-hall  over  from 
its  owner  who  was  unable  to  compete  against  the  syndicate 
halls  and  was  steadily  drinking  himself  to  death  in  conse- 
quence, and  turned  it  into  a  repertory  theatre.  Their  suc- 
cess had  been  moderate,  for  they  united  to  their  good 
intentions  a  habit  of  denunciation  of  all  plays  that  were 
not  "repertory"  plays  which  had  the  effect  partly  of 
irritating  the  common  playgoer  and  partly  of  frightening 
him.  All  the  plays  that  were  labelled  "repertory"  plays 
were  praised  by  these  earnest  students  of  the  drama  with- 
out any  sort  of  discrimination,  and  when,  as  often  hap- 
pened, a  very  poor  play  was  produced  at  the  Repertory 
Theatre,  any  common  playgoer  who  saw  it  and  was  bored 
by  it,  went  away  in  the  belief  that  he  was  not  educated  up 
to  the  standard  of  such  austere  work  and  resolved  that  he 
would  seek  his  entertainment  elsewhere  in  future.  It  was 
to  this  theatre  that  John  went  on  the  day  after  his  arrival 
in  Cottenham.  The  town  itself  depressed  him  immeasur- 


342  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

ably.  It  was  the  most  shapeless,  nondescript,  undignified 
town  he  had  ever  seen,  and  yet  it  was  one  of  the  richest 
places  in  England.  There  was  no  seemliness  in  its  main 
streets:  little  huckstering  shops  hustled  larger  and  more 
pretentious  shops,  but  all  of  them  had  an  air  of  vivacious 
vulgarity.  They  had  not  been  given  the  look  of  sobriety 
which  age  gives  even  to  ugly  streets  in  ugly  towns.  They 
seemed  to  be  striving  against  each  other  in  a  competition 
to  decide  which  was  the  commonest  and  shoddiest  shop  in 
the  city.  It  seemed  to  John  that  all  these  Cottenham  shops 
dropped  their  aitches !  .  .  .  The  clouds  were  grey  when  he 
arrived  in  Cottenham,  dirty-grey  and  very  cheerless ;  they 
were  still  dirty-grey  when  he  went  to  the  theatre,  and  rain 
fell  before  he  reached  it;  and  the  clouds  remained  in  that 
dismal  state  until  he  quitted  Cottenham  after  the  first  per- 
formance of  Milchu  and  St.  Patrick :  A  Tragedy.  It  seemed 
to  John  that  they  would  never  be  otherwise  than  dirty-grey, 
that  the  streets  would  always  be  wet  and  the  shops  always 
clamantly  vulgar. 

"I  wouldn't  live  in  this  place  for  the  wide  world,"  he 
said,  as  he  turned  into  the  stage-door  of  the  Repertory 
Theatre. 

He  was  directed  to  the  manager's  office  by  the  door- 
keeper. The  Manager  was  on  the  stage,  so  the  girl  secre- 
tary informed  him,  and  if  Mr.  MacDermott  would  kindly 
follow  her  she  would  take  him  there  at  once.  He  had 
never  seen  the  stage  side  of  the  proscenium  before,  and 
although  the  place  was  dark  and  he  stumbled  over  proper- 
ties, he  felt  enormously  interested  in  what  he  saw. 

"Is  that  the  scenery?"  he  said  to  the  secretary  as  they 
passed  some  tawdry  looking  flats  lying  against  the  walls  of 
the  scene-dock. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "It  looks  awful  in  the  daylight, 
doesn't  it?  But  when  the  footlights  are  on  and  the  limes 
are  lit,  you'd  be  surprised  to  see  how  fine  it  looks.  They 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  343 

say  that  common  'materials  look  better  in  limelight  than 
good  things  do.  Funny,  isn't  it?" 

She  led  him  on  to  the  stage  and  brought  him  to  the 
manager. 

"This  is  Mr.  MacDermott,"  she  said  to  a  tall,  lean, 
worried  man  who  was  standing  immediately  in  front  of  the 
footlights,  directing  the  rehearsal  which  was  then  beginning. 

' '  Oh,  ah,  yes ! ' '  said  the  manager,  and  then  he  turned  to 
John.  "  I  'm  Gidney, ' '  he  said. 

John  murmured  a  politeness. 

"Now,  let  me  introduce  you  to  people!"  He  turned  to 
the  players,  all  of  whom  had  that  appearance  of  depression 
which  actors  habitually  wear  in  daylight,  as  if  they  felt 
naked  and  ashamed  without  their  grease-paint.  "This  is 
the  author  of  the  play,"  he  exclaimed  to  them.  "Mr. 
MacDermott ! ' '  He  led  John  to  each  of  the  players,  naming 
them  as  he  did  so,  and  each  of  them  murmured  that  he  or 
she  was  delighted  to  have  the  pleasure !  .  .  . 

' '  I  think  if  you  were  to  sit  in  the  front  row  of  the  stalls, 
Mr.  MacDermott!"  said  Gidney,  "while  the  rehearsal  pro- 
ceeds, that  would  be  best.  You  can  tell  me  at  the  end  of 
each  act  what  alterations  or  suggestions  you  wish  to 
propose!" 

"Very  good,"  said  John,  feeling  his  spirits  running 
rapidly  into  his  boots.  What  were  these  cheerless  people 
going  to  do  with  the  play  over  which  he  had  laboured  and 
sweated  for  weeks  and  weeks  ?  .  .  . 

They  went  through  their  parts  with  a  lifeless  facility 
that  turned  his  tragedy,  he  imagined,  into  a  neat  piece  of 
machinery  and  left  it  without  any  glow  of  emotion  what- 
ever. Now  and  then  the  ease  with  which  they  recited  their 
words  was  interrupted  by  forgetfulness  and  the  player, 
whose  memory  had  failed  him,  would  snap  his  fingers  and 
call  to  the  prompter,  ' '  What  is  it  ? "  or  ' '  Give  me  that  line, 
will  you?" 


344  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"How  do  you  think  it's  going?"  said  the  manager  to 
John  at  the  end  of  the  first  act. 

' '  Well,  I  don 't  know, ' '  he  answered  with  a  nervous  laugh. 
' '  They  aren  't  putting  much  enthusiasm  into  it,  are  they  ? ' ' 

"Ah,  but  this  is  only  a  rehearsal.  Wait  till  you  see  the 
dress  rehearsal!" 

He  felt  considerably  relieved.  A  rehearsal,  of  course, 
must  be  very  different  from  a  performance.  But  on  the 
night  of  the  dress  rehearsal  ...  it  took  place  on  Sunday, 
for  the  stage  was  occupied  on  week-nights  by  regular  per- 
formances .  .  .  the  players  seemed  to  go  to  pieces.  All  of 
them  had  difficulty  in  remembering  their  lines,  and  when  at 
the  end  of  the  last  act,  a  piece  of  the  scenery  collapsed 
upon  St.  Patrick,  John  felt  that  he  could  have  cheerfully 
seen  the  entire  theatre  collapse  on  everybody  concerned  with 
it.  He  went  to  the  grubby  Temperance  hotel  in  which  he 
had  taken  a  room,  and  gave  himself  completely  to  gloom 
and  despair.  He  felt  that  his  play  was  not  quite  so  brilliant 
as  he  had  imagined  it  to  be,  but  he  was  not  sure  that  his  dis- 
satisfaction with  it  ought  not  really  to  be  displayed  against 
the  actors.  Any  play,  treated  as  his  had  been  treated,  must 
seem  to  be  a  poor  piece.  Gidney  had  appeared  to  be  pleased 
with  the  dress  rehearsal  and  had  wrung  John's  hand  with 
great  heartiness  when  they  separated.  "Going  splen- 
didly!" he  murmured.  "Congratulate  you.  Excellent 
piece!  ..."  On  the  way  to  his  hotel,  he  had  seen  a 
play-bill  in  the  window  of  a  tobacconist 's  shop,  and  a  thrill 
of  pleasure  had  quickened  him  as  he  stood  in  front  of  the 
glass  and  read  his  name  beneath  the  title  of  the  play.  He 
must  remember  to  ask  Gidney  for  a  copy  of  the  play-bill 
to  hang  up  in  his  flat !  Now,  in  the  dull  and  not  very  clean 
bedroom  of  the  Temperance  Hotel,  he  felt  indifferent  to 
play-bills  and  the  thrill  of  seeing  his  name  in  print.  He 
wished  that  Eleanor  were  with  him.  They  had  decided 
that  she  should  not  be  present  at  the  first  night  in  Cotten- 
ham  because  of  the  expense  of  hotel  bills  and  railway  fares. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  345 

"I'll  see  it  in  London,"  she  had  said  bravely,  trying  to 
conceal  her  disappointment.  Now,  however,  he  wished  that 
she  were  with  him.  She  had  remarkable  powers  of  com- 
forting. If  he  were  depressed,  Eleanor  would  draw  his 
head  down  to  her  shoulder  and  would  soothe  him  into  a 
good  temper  again.  There  had  been  times  since  their  mar- 
riage when  he  had  been  dubious  about  her  .  .  .  when  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  had  only  a  kindly  affection  for  him 
and  still  had  not  got  love  for  him  .  .  .  and  the  thought 
filled  him  with  resentment  against  her.  Why  could  she  not 
love  him?  He  was  lovable  enough  and  he  loved  her.  A 
woman  ought  to  love  a  man  who  loved  her!  .  .  .  Then 
some  perception  of  the  self-sufficiency  and  the  smugness  of 
these  thoughts  went  through  his  mind  and  he  would  abase 
himself  in  spirit  before  her  and  reproach  himself  for  un- 
kindnesses  that  he  imagined  he  had  shown  to  her  .  .  .  hasty 
words  that  hurt  her.  His  temper  was  quick  to  rise,  but 
equally  quick  to  fall;  and  sometimes  he  failed  to  realise 
that  in  the  sudden  outburst  of  anger  he  had  said  cruel, 
hurting  things  which  made  no  impression  on  him  because 
they  were  said  without  any  feeling,  but  left  a  hard  impres- 
sion on  those  to  whom  they  were  addressed.  He  had  seen 
pain  in  Eleanor's  eyes  when  he  had  spoken  some  swift  and 
biting  word  to  her,  and  then,  all  repentance,  he  had  tried 
to  kiss  the  pain  from  her.  .  .  . 

To-night,  in  this  grubby  bedroom,  smelling  of  teetotallers 
and  grim,  forbidding  people  in  whom  are  to  be  found  none 
of  the  genial  foibles  of  ordinary,  hearty  men,  he  felt  an 
excess  of  remorse  for  any  unkind  thing  he  had  ever  said  to 
Eleanor.  His  pessimism  about  his  play  caused  him  to 
exaggerate  the  enormity  of  his  offences.  He  pictured  her, 
looking  at  him  with  that  queer  air  of  puzzled  pathos  that 
had  so  impressed  him  when  he  first  saw  her,  and  intense 
shame  filled  him  when  he  thought  that  he  had  done  or  said 
anything  to  make  her  look  at  him  in  that  way.  Well,  he 
would  compensate  her  for  any  pain  that  he  had  caused  h«>r. 


346  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

He  would  love  her  so  dearly  that  her  life  would  be  passed 
in  continual  sunshine  and  comfort.  Even  if  she  were 
never  to  return  his  love  or  to  return  only  a  slight  share  of 
it,  he  would  devote  himself  to  her  just  as  completely  as  if 
she  gave  everything  to  him.  His  play  might  be  miserably 
acted  and  be  a  failure,  apart  from  the  acting,  but  what 
mattered  that?  While  he  had  Eleanor  he  had  everything. 

vii 

He  went  down  to  the  theatre  on  the  evening  of  the  first 
performance  in  a  state  of  calm  and  quietness  which  greatly 
astonished  him.  He  had  expected  to  tremble  and  quake 
with  nervousness  and  to  be  reluctant  to  go  near  the  theatre. 
He  remembered  to  have  read  somewhere  an  account  of  the 
way  in  which  some  melodramatist  of  repute  behaved  on  a 
first  night.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  Embankment 
while  his  play  was  being  performed,  mopping  his  fevered 
brow  and  groaning  in  agony.  Someone  had  found  the 
melodramatist  on  one  occasion,  sitting  at  the  foot  of 
Cleopatra's  Needle,  howling  into  his  handkerchief.  .  .  . 
John,  however,  had  no  terrors  whatever  when  he  entered 
the  theatre,  and  he  told  himself  that  the  melodramatist  was 
either  an  extremely  emotional  man  or  a  very  considerable 
liar.  There  was  a  moderate  number  of  people  in  the  audi- 
torium, enough  to  preserve  the  theatre  from  seeming 
sparsely-occupied,  but  not  enough  to  justify  anyone  in  say- 
ing that  the  house  was  full.  The  atmosphere  resembled 
that  of  a  church.  People  spoke,  when  they  spoke  at  all,  in 
whispers,  and  John  was  so  infected  by  the  air  of  solemnity 
that  when  a  small  boy  in  the  gallery  began  to  call  out 
"Acid  drops  or  cigarettes!"  he  felt  that  a  sidesman  must 
appear  from  a  pew  and  take  the  lad  to  the  police-station 
for  brawling  in  a  sacred  edifice.  He  waited  for  the  or- 
chestra to  appear,  but  the  play  began  without  any  pre- 
liminary music.  The  lights  were  lowered,  and  soon  after- 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  347 

wards  someone  beat  the  floor  of  the  stage  with  a  wooden 
mallet  .  .  .  sending-  forth  three  sepulchral  sounds  that 
seemed  to  hammer  out  of  the  audience  any  tendency  it 
might  have  had  to  enjoy  itself.  Then  the  curtain  ascended, 
and  the  play  began. 

viii 

The  actors  were  much  better  than  they  had  promised  to  be 
at  the  dress  rehearsal,  but  they  were  still  far  from  being 
good.  It  was  very  plain  that  they  had  been  insufficiently 
rehearsed  and  there  were  some  bad  cases  of  mis-casting. 
Nevertheless,  the  performance  was  better  than  he  had  an- 
ticipated, and  his  spirits  rose  almost  as  rapidly  as  they  had 
fallen  on  the  previous  night ;  and  when  at  the  end  of  the 
performance  there  were  calls  for  the  author,  he  passed 
through  the  door  that  gave  access  from  the  auditorium  to 
the  stage  with  a  great  deal  of  elation.  He  was  thrust  on  to 
the  stage  by  Gidney,  and  found  himself  standing  between 
two  of  the  actresses.  There  was  a  great  black  cavern  in 
front  of  him  which,  he  realised,  was  the  auditorium,  and  he 
could  hear  applause  rising  out  of  it.  The  curtain  rose  and 
fell  again,  and  the  buzz  of  voices  calling  praise  to  him  grew 
louder.  Then  the  curtain  fell  again,  and  this  time  it 
remained  down.  He  realised  that  he  had  gripped  the 
actresses  by  the  hand  and  that  he  was  holding  them  very 
tightly.  ...  "I  beg  your  pardon!"  he  said,  releasing 
them. 

"Awf'lly  good!"  said  one  of  the  actresses,  smiling  at 
him  as  she  moved  across  the  stage.  How  horrible  actors 
and  actresses  in  their  make-up  looked  close  to!  He  could 
not  conceive  of  himself  kissing  that  woman  while  she  had 
so  much  paint  on  her  face.  ...  He  turned  to  walk  off  the 
stage,  and  found  that  walking  was  very  difficult.  He  was 
trembling  so  that  his  knees  were  almost  knocking  together 
and  when  he  moved,  he  reeled  slightly. 

"I  say,"  he  said  to  one  of  the  actors,  "my  nerve's  gone 


348  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

to   pieces.     Funny   thing  ...  I  ...  felt   nothing   at   all 
.  .  .  nothing  .  .  .  until  just  now!" 

The  actor  took  hold  of  his  arm  and  steadied  him.  ' '  Queer 
how  nerves  affect  people,"  he  said,  as  John  and  he  left  the 
stage.  "I  knew  a  man  who  got  stage  fright  two  days 
before  the  first  night  of  a  play  in  which  he  had  a  big  part. 
Nearly  collapsed  in  the  street.  All  right  afterwards  .  .  . 
never  turned  a  hair  on  the  stage.  Must  congratulate  you 
on  your  play  .  .  .  jolly  good,  I  call  it.  Tragedy,  of 
course!  ..." 

He  had  expected  some  sort  of  festivity  after  the  perform- 
ance, but  there  was  none.  The  players  were  eager  to  get 
home,  and  Gidney  had  a  headache,  so  John  thanked  each 
of  them  and  went  back  to  his  hotel. 

"Thank  goodness,"  he  said,  "I  shall  be  at  home  to- 
morrow. ' ' 

He  got  into  bed  and  lay  quietly  in  the  darkness,  but  he 
could  nol  sleep,  and  so  he  turned  on  the  light  again  and 
tried  to  read;  but  his  head  was  thumping,  thumping  and 
the  words  had  no  meaning  for  him.  He  put  the  book  down. 
How  extraordinary  is  the  common  delusion,  he  thought, 
that  actors  and  actresses  lead  gay  lives!  Could  anything 
be  more  dull  than  the  life  of  an  actor  in  a  repertory  theatre  ? 
Daily  rehearsals  in  a  dingy  and  draughty  theatre  and 
nightly  performances  in  half -rehearsed  plays!  .  .  .  "Give 
me  the  life  of  a  bank  clerk  for  real  gaiety,"  he  murmured. 
"An  actor's  just  a  drudge  .  .  .  and  a  dull  drudge,  too! 
Very  uninteresting  people,  actors  1  ...  Why  the  devil  did 
I  leave  Eleanor  behind?" 


IX 

He  returned  to  London  on  the  following  morning,  carry- 
ing copies  of  the  Cottenham  Daily  Post  and  the  Cottenham 
Mercury  with  him.  The  notices  of  his  play  were  mildly 
appreciative  .  .  .  that  of  the  Post  being  so  mild  as  to  be 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  349 

almost  denunciatory.  The  critic  asserted  that  John 's  play, 
while  interesting,  showed  that  its  author  had  no  real  under- 
standing of  the  meaning  of  tragedy.  He  found  no  evidence 
in  Milchu  and  St.  Patrick  that  John  appreciated  the  im- 
portance of  the  pressure  of  the  Significant  Event.  The 
Significant  Event  decided  the  development  of  a  tragedy,  but 
in  Mr.  MacDermott's  play  there  was  no  Significant  Event. 
The  play  just  happened,  so  to  speak,  and  it  ought  not  to 
' '  just  happen. ' '  It  was  an  excellent  discursus  on  the  drama 
from  the  time  of  the  morality  plays  to  the  time  of  the  Irish 
Players,  and  it  included  references  to  Euripides,  Ibsen,  the 
Noh  plays  of  Japan,  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  (in  a  patronising 
manner)  Synge  and  Mr.  Masefield;  but  John  felt,  when 
he  had  read  it,  that  most  of  it  had  been  written  before  its 
author  had  seen  his  play.  The  other  notice  was  less  learned, 
but  it  left  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  the  readers  that  although 
Milchu  and  St.  Patrick  was  an  interesting  piece  .  .  .  the 
word  ; '  interesting, ' '  after  he  had  read  these  notices,  seemed 
to  John  to  be  equivalent  to  the  word  "poor"  ...  it  was 
not  likely  to  mark  any  epochs. 

"I  don't  think  much  of  Cottenham  anyhow!"  said  John, 
putting  the  papers  in  his  pocket. 

Eleanor  met  him  at  Euston.  The  fatigue  which  settles 
on  a  traveller  in  the  last  hour  of  a  long  railway  journey 
had  raised  the  devil  of  depression  in  John.  He  had  re- 
read the  notices  in  the  Cottenham  papers,  and  as  he  con- 
sidered their  very  restrained  praises  of  his  play,  he  re- 
membered that  Hinde  had  said  The  Enchanted  Lover  was 
an  ordinary  novel. 

"I  wonder  am  I  any  good,"  he  said  to  himself  as  the 
train  hauled  itself  into  Euston. 

He  looked  out  of  the  window  and  saw  Eleanor  standing 
on  the  platform,  scanning  the  carriage  as  she  sought  for  him. 

"Well,  she  thinks  I  am,"  he  thought,  as  he  alighted  from 
the  train.  "Eleanor!"  he  called  to  her,  and  she  turned 
and  when  she  saw  him,  her  eyes  lit  and  she  hurried  to  him. 


THE  SECOND  CHAPTER 


HINDE'S  enthusiastic  review  of  The  Enchanted  Lover  had 
not  been  followed  by  other  reviews  equally  enthusiastic  or 
nearly  so.  Many  papers  failed  to  do  more  than  include  it 
in  the  List  of  Books  Received.  The  Times  Literary  Supple- 
ment gave  six  lines  of  small  type  to  a  cold  account  of  it. 
The  reviewer  declared  that  "this  first  novel  is  not  without 
merit ' '  but  either  had  not  been  able  to  discover  the  merit  or 
had  not  enough  space  in  which  to  describe  it,  for  he  omitted 
to  say  what  it  was.  John  had  paid  a  visit  to  the  local 
lending  library  every  morning  for  a  week  in  order  that  he 
might  see  all  the  London  newspapers  and  such  of  the 
provincial  papers  as  were  exhibited,  and  had  searched  their 
columns  eagerly  for  references  to  his  book;  but  the  refer- 
ences were  few  and  slight.  Mr.  Claude  Jannissary,  when 
John  visited  him,  wagged  his  head  dolefully  and  uttered 
some  mournful  remarks  on  the  sad  state  of  idealism  in 
England.  He  regretted  to  say  that  the  book  was  not  selling 
so  well  as  he  had  hoped  it  would  sell.  The  appalling  condi- 
tions of  the  publishing  trade  were  accentuated  by  the  ex- 
traordinary reluctance  of  the  booksellers  to  take  risks  or  to 
show  any  enthusiasm  for  new  things.  Between  Mr.  Jan- 
nissary and  John,  he  might  say  that  booksellers  were  a  very 
unsatisfactory  lot.  Most  of  them  were  quite  uncultured 
men.  Hardly  any  of  them  read  books.  Mr.  Jannissary 
longed  for  the  day  when  booksellers  would  look  upon  their 
shops  as  places  of  adventure  and  romance !  .  .  . 

A  curious  sensation  of  distaste  for  these  words  passed 
through  John  when  he  heard  them  spoken  by  Mr.  Jannis- 
sary. 

350 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  351 

The  booksellers,  said  the  publishers,  should  be  ambitious 
to  earn  the  title  of  the  new  Elizabethans  .  .  .  hungering 
and  thirsting  after  dangerous  experiences.  He  would  like 
to  see  a  bookseller  turning  disdainfully  from  "best  sellers" 
and  eagerly  purchasing  large  quantities  of  books  by  un- 
known authors.  "Think  of  the  thrill  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Jan- 
nissary;  and  John,  perturbed  in  his  mind,  tried  hard  to 
think  of  the  thrill  of  it.  His  mental  perturbation  was  due 
to  the  lean  look  of  his  bank  balance.  Money  was  going  out 
of  his  house  more  rapidly  than  it  was  coming  in,  and 
Eleanor  had  been  full  of  anxiety  that  morning.  He  had  not 
yet  received  a  cheque  from  the  Cottenham  Repertory 
Theatre  for  the  royalties  due  on  the  week's  performance  of 
Milchu  and  St.  Patrick,  but  he  had  soothed  Eleanor's  fears 
by  assuring  her  that  there  would  be  the  better  part  of  a 
hundred  pounds  to  come  to  them  from  Cottenham  in  a  few 
days.  In  the  meantime,  he  told  her,  he  would  call  on 
Jannissary  and  see  whether  he  could  not  obtain  some  money 
from  him.  "He  must  have  sold  much  more  than  five  hun- 
dred copies  by  this  time,"  he  said.  "If  all  the  bookshops 
in  the  country  only  took  one  copy  each,  he  'd  have  sold  more 
than  five  hundred,  and  I'm  sure  they'd  all  take  two  or 
three  each.  Perhaps  more!" 

The  suggestion  that  he  might  make  a  small  advance  to 
John  on  account  of  accrued  royalties  had  a  very  chilling 
effect  upon  Mr.  Jannissary.  "My  dear  fellow,"  he  said, 
putting  up  his  hands  in  a  benedictory  manner  and  then 
dropping  them  as  if  to  say  that  even  he  found  difficulty  in 
believing  in  the  nobility  of  man,  "impossible!  Absolutely 
impossible!  I've  sunk  .  .  .  Money  .  .  .  much  Money  .  .  . 
in  your  book  ...  I  don't  regret  it  ...  not  for  a  mo- 
ment ...  I  believe  in  you,  MacDermott  .  .  .  strongly 
.  .  .  but  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  I  recover 
any  of  that  .  .  .  Money  ...  if  I  ever  recover  it.  I'm 
sorry!  ..." 

John  had  come  away  from  the  publisher  in  a  cheerless 


352  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

state  of  mind,  and  as  he  turned  into  the  Strand,  he  collided 
with  Hinde. 

"How's  the  book  getting  on?"  Hinde  demanded  when 
they  had  greeted  each  other. 

John  told  him  of  what  Jannissary  had  said. 

"I  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  Hinde.  "I'll  work  up  a 
boom  for  it  in  the  Evening  Herald.  I'll  turn  one  of  my 
chaps  on  to  writing  half  a  dozen  letters  to  the  Editor  about 
it!  .  .  ." 

"But  you  don't  like  the  book,"  John  expostulated. 
"You  told  me  it  wasn't  much  good !" 

"Och,  I  know  that,"  Hinde  replied,  "but  that  doesn't 
matter.  I'd  like  to  do  you  a  good  turn.  There's  a  smart 
chap  working  for  me  now  ...  he  can  put  more  superlatives 
into  a  paragraph  than  any  other  man  in  Fleet  Street,  and 
he  isn't  afraid  of  committing  himself  to  anything.  Most 
useful  fellow  to  have  on  your  staff.  He  does  our  Literary 
article,  and  he 's  discovered  a  fresh  genius  every  week  since 
he  came  to  me.  He  '11  get  on,  that  chap !  I  '11  turn  him  on 
to  your  book ! ' ' 

"I  don't  want  praise  that  I  don't  deserve,"  John  said, 
thrusting  out  his  lower  lip. 

"Oh,  you'll  deserve  it  all  right.  Everybody  deserves 
some  praise.  How's  Eleanor?" 

"All  right!" 

Then  Hinde  hurried  away,  and  John  went  home.  There 
was  a  letter  from  the  Cottenham  Repertory  Theatre  await- 
ing him,  and  he  eagerly  opened  the  envelope. 

"You  needn't  worry  any  longer,"  he  said  to  Eleanor 
as  he  took  out  the  contents  of  the  envelope.  .  .  . 

He  gaped  at  the  cheque  and  the  Returns  Sheet. 

' '  How  much  is  it  ? "  Eleanor  asked. 

' '  There  must  be  a  mistake !  .  .  . " 

"How  much  is  it?"  she  repeated. 

"Sixteen  pounds,  nine  shillings  and  sevenpence! 
But!  .  ." 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  353 

ii 

She  took  the  Returns  Sheet  from  him.  "No,"  she  said 
after  she  had  examined  it,  "there  doesn't  appear  to  be 
any  mistake.  It  seems  to  be  all  right ! ' ' 

She  put  the  paper  and  the  cheque  down,  and  turned 
away. 

"It's  queer,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 

"Yes.  Yes,  very!  We  shall  have  to  do  something, 
John.  We  Ve  very  little  left ! ' ' 

"Of  course,  there's  the  London  season  to  come  yet,"  he 
said  to  comfort  her. 

' '  Not  for  a  very  long  time, ' '  she  answered,  ' '  and  it  may 
not  be  any  better  than  this!"  She  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
then  she  hurriedly  said,  "John,  why  shouldn't  I  go  on  with 
my  work  ? ' ' 

' '  On  with  your  work !     What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"Why  shouldn't  I  get  a  job  again?  We  could  manage,  I 
think,  and  the  money  I  'd  earn  would  be  useful.  You  could 
finish  your  new  book!  ..." 

His  pride  was  hurt.  "Oh,  no,"  he  said  at  once.  "No, 
no,  I  can't  agree  to  that.  What  sort  of  a  husband  would  I 
look  like  if  people  heard  that  I  couldn't  maintain  my  wife. 
Oh,  Eleanor,  I  couldn't  think  of  such  a  thing !  .  .  . 

"I  don't  see  why  not.  You're  not  going  to  make  money 
easily,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  and  either  you  or  I  must  get 
work  of  some  sort.  I  know  you  want  to  finish  your  book, 
so  why  shouldn't  I  earn  something  to  help  us  to  keep 
going ! ' ' 

"No,"  he  said,  "that's  my  job.  I  daresay  Hinde  would 
give  me  work  if  I  asked  for  it ! " 

"But  you've  always  been  against  doing  journalism." 

"I  know.  I'm  still  against  it,  but  one  can't  always  resist 
things.  He  might  let  me  do  literary  work  for  him.  I'll  go 
in  and  see  him  to-morrow. ' ' 

He  told  her  of  his  encounter  with  Hinde  that  day  and 


354  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

of  Hindc's  proposal  to  boom  The  Enchanted  Lover.  "I 
don 't  like  the  idea  much,  but  perhaps  it  '11  be  useful ! ' '  He 
picked  up  the  cheque  from  the  Cottenham  Repertory 
Theatre.  "I'm  actually  out  of  pocket  over  this  affair," 
he  said.  "What  with  the  cost  of  typing  the  play  and  my 
expenses  in  Cottenham.  ..." 

' '  I  wish  we  could  go  back  to  Ballyards, ' '  Eleanor  said. 

' '  Go  back  to  Ballyards ! "  he  exclaimed,  staring  at  her  in 
astonishment. 

"Yes,  we'd  be  much  better  off  there!" 

' '  Go  back  and  admit  I  've  failed  in  London !  Crawl  home 
with  my  tail  between  my  legs !  .  .  . " 

"Don't  be  melodramatic,"  said  Eleanor. 

"I  have  my  pride,"  he  retorted.  "You  can  call  that 
being  melodramatic,  if  you  like,  but  I  call  it  decent  pride. 
I  won't  admit  to  anybody  that  I've  failed.  I  haven't 
failed!  ..." 

"I  didn't  say  you  had,  dear!" 

"I  won't  fail.  You  wait.  Just  you  wait.  I'll  succeed 
all  right.  If  I  have  failed  so  far,  I  can  try  again,  can't  I? 
Can't  I?" 

"Yes,  John!  .  .  ." 

"I'm  not  going  to  take  a  knock-down  blow  as  a  knock- 
out. I  know  I  can  write.  I  feel  the  stuff  inside  me.  The 
book  I  'm  doing  now,  isn  't  that  good  ? ' ' 

"Well!  .  .  ." 

' '  Isn 't  it  good  ?    You  '11  have  to  admit  it 's  good ! ' ' 

' '  I  daresay  it  is.  It  isn 't  the  kind  of  book  I  like,  but  I  'm 
sure  it's  good.  That's  why  I  want  to  get  a  job,  so  that  you 
can  finish  it  in  peace.  Let  me  try  .  .  .  just  until  you've 
finished  the  book.  Then  perhaps  things  will  be  all  right. 
I  'd  like  to  be  able  to  say  that  I  helped  you ! ' ' 

"You're  a  lot  too  good  for  me." 

' '  Oh,  no,  I  'm  not.  Any  girl  who  is  a  girl  would  want  to 
help,  wouldn't  she?" 

His  temper  had  subsided  now,  and  the  reproach  he  always 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  355 

felt  after  such  a  scene  as  this  made  him  feel  very  ashamed 
of  himself. 

"I'm  sorry,  Eleanor,  that  I  lost  my  temper  just  now.  I 
didn  't  mean  to  say  what  I  did !  .  .  . " 

"But,  my  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  didn't  say  much, 
and  if  you  did  it  was  because  you  were  upset  about  the  play 
and  the  novel.  Don't  worry  about  that.  Now,  listen  to 
me.  I  met  Mr.  Crawford  this  morning !  .  .  . " 

"Crawford?" 

"Yes.  He's  managing  director  of  that  motor  place  I 
used  to  be  in.  He  told  me  he  had  never  had  a  secretary  so 
useful  as  I  was,  and  that  he  wished  I'd  never  met 
you!  .  .  ." 

"Did  he,  indeed?" 

"Yes.  Of  course,  that  was  only  a  joko.  I'm  sure  he'd 
let  me  go  back  to  my  old  job  for  a  while!  ..." 

"No.    No,  no!" 

She  stood  up,  half  turned  away  from  him,  and  said, 
' '  Well,  I  'm  going  to  ask  for  it  anyhow ! ' ' 

"You're  what?" 

' '  Yes,  John,  I  'm  going  to  ask  for  it.  Don 't  shout  at  me ! 
You  really  must  listen  to  sense.  I  'm  not  going  to  run  into 
debt  or  have  trouble  with  tradesmen  about  money  just  be- 
cause of  your  pride.  I  want  you  to  finish  that  book ! ' ' 

"I'd  rather  sweep  the  streets  than  let  you  go  back  to 
your  old  job." 

"Well,  I'll  get  a  new  one  then!" 

' '  Or  any  job, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  don 't  care  what  it  is.  That 
man  Crawford,  what  do  you  think  he'd  say  if  you  went 
back  to  him?  I  know.  'Poor  Mrs.  MacDermott,  her  hus- 
band must  be  a  rum  sort  of  a  fellow  .  .  .  not  able  to  keep 
his  wife  .  .  .  she  had  to  go  out  to  work  again  soon  after  he 
married  her ! '  That 's  what  he  'd  say ! ' ' 

"But  does  it  matter  what  he  says?" 

"Yes.  I'm  not  going  to  have  anybody  say  that  I  can't 
earn  enough  to  keep  you  decently  ! ' ' 


356  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"That's  all  very  fine,  John,  but  you're  not  doing  it. 
Your  novel  hasn  't  brought  you  any  money  at  all,  and  you  've 
spent  as  much  on  the  play  as  you've  got  so  far.  You've 
had  one  or  two  articles  printed,  and  that's  all.  The  rest 
of  the  money  we've  lived  on  has  come  from  your  Uncle 
William!  ..." 

"Uncle  William!  None  of  it  came  from  him.  Uncle 
Matthew  left  me  his  money  and  my  mother  gave  me  the 
rest!" 

"Yes,  and  how  did  they  get  it?  From  your  Uncle  Wil- 
liam, of  course.  His  work  has  kept  them,  hasn 't  it  ?  And 
you?  We're  sponging  on  your  Uncle  William,  and  I  hate 
to  think  we  're  sponging  on  him.  You  're  very  proud  about 
not  letting  me  go  out  to  work,  but  you  're  not  so  proud  about 
letting  Uncle  William  keep  you ! ' ' 

This  was  a  blow  between  the  eyes  for  him.  "That's  a 
bitterly  unkind  thing  to  say,"  he  murmured. 

"  It 's  true,  isn  't  it  ? "  she  retorted.  ' '  I  don 't  want  to  be 
unkind,  John,  but  we've  really  got  to  face  things.  I'm 
frightened.  I  don't  like  the  thought  of  getting  into  debt. 
I've  never  been  in  debt  before.  Never!  And  I  can't  see 
what 's  going  to  happen  when  we  've  spent  our  money  if  one 
of  us  doesn  't  start  to  earn  something  now ! ' '  She  changed 
her  tone.  "John,  don't  be  silly  about  it.  Do  agree  to  my 
getting  a  job  for  the  present.  You'll  be  able  to  get  on 
with  your  book  at  home,  and  any  other  writing  you  want  to 
do,  and  then  perhaps  things  will  get  straight  and  we'll  be 
all  right!" 

' '  The  point  is,  do  you  believe  in  me  ?"  he  demanded. 

' '  Of  course  I  believe  in  you !  .  .  . " 

"Ah,  but  I  mean  in  my  work.  In  my  writing.  Do  you 
believe  in  that  ? ' ' 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  Lots  of  books  are  very 
good  that  I  don't  much  care  for.  I  liked  The  Enchanted 
Lover — it  was  quite  good — but  I  don't  much  care  for  the 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  357 

one  you're  doing  now.  I  can't  help  that.  I  daresay  other 
people  will  like  it  better!" 

"Why  don't  you  like  it?" 

' '  Well,  it  doesn  't  seem  to  me  to  be  about  anything. ' ' 

"Listen,  Eleanor!  I  don't  want  just  to  be  one  of  a  mob 
of  fairly  good  writers.  If  I  can 't  be  a  great  writer,  I  don 't 
want  to  be  a  writer  at  all.  I  '11  have  everything  or  I  '11  have 
nothing ! ' ' 

"I  see!" 

"So  now  you  know.  I  feel  I  have  greatness  in  me  ... 
but  you  don't  feel  like  that  about  me,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  greatness.  All  I  know  is 
that  I  like  some  things  and  that  I  don 't  like  others.  I  don 't 
know  why  a  book  is  great  or  why  it  isn  't.  You  can 't  judge 
things  by  what  I  say.  It's  quite  possible  that  you  are  a 
great  writer,  and  that's  why  I  want  you  to  let  me  get  a 
job,  so  that  you  can  go  on  with  your  work  and  be  able  to 
show  the  world  what  you  can  do.  I'd  hate  to  think  you'd 
been  prevented  from  doing  your  best  work  because  you'd 
had  to  use  up  your  energy  doing  other  things.  It  won't 
take  long  to  finish  this  book,  will  it  ? " 

"No." 

"Well,  then,  I  shan't  have  to  work  for  very  long. 
By  the  time  it's  finished,  The  Enchanted  Lover  may 
have  earned  a  lot  of  money  for  us  ...  and  the  play, 
too  ...  and  then  we  can  just  laugh  at  our  troubles 
now! .  ." 


111 

He  remained  obdurate  for  a  while,  but  in  the  end  she 
wore  his  opposition  down.  Mr.  Crawford  gladly  welcomed 
her  back  to  her  old  job,  and  even  offered  her  a  larger  salary 
than  she  had  been  receiving  before  her  marriage.  "I've 
learned  your  value  since  you  went  away, ' '  he  said.  "  1  'm  a 


358  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

fool  to  tell  you  that,  perhaps,  but  I  can't  help  it.  Half  the 
young  women  who  go  out  to  offices  nowadays  would  be  dear 
at  ninepence  a  week.  The  last  girl  we  had  here  caused  me 
to  imperil  my  immortal  soul  twice  a  day  through  her  incom- 
petence. I  've  sworn  more  in  a  week  since  you  left  us,  than 
I  ever  swore  in  my  life  before !  .  .  . " 

Eleanor  insisted  that  John  should  not  inform  his  mother 
of  her  return  to  work.  Intuitively  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dermott's  pride  would  be  outraged  by  this  knowledge,  and 
that  she  would  make  bitter  complaint  to  John  of  his  failure 
to  maintain  his  wife  in  a  way  worthy  of  his  family ;  and  so 
she  urged  John  to  say  nothing  at  all  of  the  matter  either  to 
Mrs.  MacDermott  or  to  Uncle  William.  He  had  made  no 
comment  on  the  matter,  but  she  knew  that  he  had  been 
relieved  by  her  request. 

Hinde  had  fulfilled  his  promise  to  boom  The  Enchanted 
Lover  in  the  Evening  Herald,  and  Mr. .  Jannissary  reluc- 
tantly admitted  that  the  book  was  selling.  "Slowly,  of 
course,  but  still  .  .  .  selling !  I  think  I  shall  get  my  money 
back,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  think  I'll  get  any  money  out  of  it?"  John 
asked. 

"Ah,  these  things  are  on  the  knees  of  the  gods,  my  dear 
fellow !  It  is  impossible  to  say ! ' ' 

The  second  book  moved  in  a  leisurely  manner  to  its  close, 
and  Mr.  Jannissary  declared  that  he  was  delighted  to  hear 
that  The  Enchanted  Lover  would  shortly  have  a  successor. 
He  thought  that  perhaps  he  could  promise  to  pay  royalties 
from  the  first  copy  of  the  new  novel !  .  .  . 

' '  How  do  writers  manage  to  live,  Mr.  Jannissary  ? ' '  John 
said  to  him  at  this  point,  and  Mr.  Jannissary  murmured 
that  there  was  a  divinity  which  shapes  our  ends,  rough-hew 
them  how  we  may. 

"Oh,  is  that  it?"  said  John. 

' '  Some  men  have  been  very  hungry,  MacDermott,  because 
they  served  their  Art  faithfully.  Think  of  the  garrets,  the 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  359 

lonely  attics  in  which  beautiful  things  have  been  imag- 
ined! .  .  ." 

' '  I  've  no  desire  to  go  hungry  or  to  live  in  a  lonely  attic, 
Mr.  Jannissary.  Let  me  tell  you  that ! ' ' 

"Xo  .  .  .  no,  of  course  not.  None  of  us  have.  I  trust 
I  am  not  a  voluptuary  or  self-indulgent  in  any  way,  but  I 
too  would  dislike  to  be  excessively  hungry.  Still,  I  think 
it  must  be  a  great  consolation  to  a  man  to  think  that  he 
had  made  a  great  work  out  of  ...  his  pain,  so  to  speak ! ' ' 

John  reflected  for  a  moment  on  this.  Then  he  said, 
"How  do  you  manage  to  keep  going,  Mr.  Jannissary,  when 
you  publish  so  many  books  that  don't  bring  you  any  re- 
turn?" 

Mr.  Jannissary  glanced  very  interrogatively  at  John. 
Then  he  waved  his  hands,  and  murmured  vaguely.  "Sac- 
rifices," he  said.  "We  all  have  to  make  sacrifices!  ..." 

John  left  the  publisher  and  went  on  to  the  office  of  the 
Evening  Herald  where  he  saw  Hinde.  "I've  brought  an 
article  I  thought  you'd  like  to  print,"  he  said  when  he  had 
been  admitted  to  Hinde 's  office.  Hinde  glanced  quickly 
through  it.  "Good,"  he  said,  "I'll  put  it  in  to-morrow. 
I  suppose,"  he  continued,  "you  wouldn't  like  to  do  a  job 
for  me?" 

"What  sort  of  a  job?" 

"There's  to  be  a  great  ceremony  at  Westminster  Abbey 
to-morrow  .  .  .  dedication  of  a  chapel  for  the  Order  of  the 
Bath.  The  King '11  be  there.  Like  to  go  and  write  an  ac- 
count of  it?" 

"Yes,  I  would!" 

"Good.  I'll  get  Masters  to  send  the  ticket  of  admission 
on  to  you  to-night ! ' ' 

He  felt  much  happier  when  he  left  the  Herald  offices  than 
he  had  felt  when  he  entered  them.  He  had  sold  an  article 
and  had  been  commissioned  to  do  an  interesting  job.  Elea- 
nor would  be  pleased.  He  hurried  home  so  that  he  might 
be  there  to  greet  her  when  she  returned  from  her  work. 


360  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

iv 

She  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire  when  he  entered  the 
flat.  ' '  Hilloa, ' '  he  said,  ' '  you  're  home  early,  aren  't  you  ? ' ' 

She  looked  up  and  smiled  rather  wanly  at  him. 

''Yes,"  she  said,  "I  came  home  about  three!  ..." 

"Why?    Aren't  you  well?" 

"  I  'm  not  feeling  very  grand ! ' ' 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"I  don't  know.  At  least  I  ...  Oh,  I  don't  know.  It 
may  only  be  imagination ! ' ' 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  "Imagination!  ..."  She 
looked  at  him  very  steadily,  and  he  found  himself  remem- 
bering how  beautiful  he  had  thought  her  eyes  were  that  day 
when  he  saw  her  for  the  first  time.  They  were  still  very 
beautiful. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know  .  .  .  but  I 
...  I  think  I  'm  going  to  have  a  baby ! ' ' 

"Holy  Smoke!" 

"I  don't  know.     I  feel  so  stupid!  ..." 

She  had  been  smiling  while  she  was  telling  this  to  him, 
but  now  she  dismayed  him  by  bursting  into  tears. 

' '  Eleanor ! "  he  exclaimed,  not  knowing  what  to  say  or  to 
do,  and  she  let  herself  subside  into  his  arms  and  lay  there, 
half  laughing  and  half  crying. 

"I'm  being  a  .  .  .  frightful  .  .  .  fool, "  she  said  between 
sobs,  "but  I  ...  I  can't  help  it!" 

They  sat  together  until  the  dusk  had  turned  to  darkness, 
holding  each  other  and  whispering  explanations  and  hopes 
and  fears.  A  queer  sense  of  responsibility  settled  upon 
John,  a  feeling  that  he  must  bear  burdens  and  be  glad  to 
bear  them.  Eleanor  seemed  to  him  now  to  be  a  very  fragile 
and  timid  creature,  turning  instinctively  to  him  for  care 
and  protection.  Immeasureable  love  for  her  surged  in  his 
heart.  This  very  dear  and  gentle  girl,  so  full  of  courage 
and  yet  so  full  of  alarm,  had  become  inexpressibly  precious 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  S61 

to  him.  She  had  come  to  him  in  doubt  and  had  entrusted 
her  life  to  him,  not  certain  that  she  cared  for  him  suffi- 
ciently to  be  entirely  happy  with  him.  He  had  tried  to 
make  her  happy,  and  slowly  he  had  seen  her  liking  for  him 
growing  into  some  sort  of  affection.  Perhaps  now  she  loved 
him  as  he  loved  her.  Soon  she  would  be  the  mother  of  a 
child  ...  his  child !  .  .  .  How  very  extraordinary  it 
seemed!  A  few  months  ago,  Eleanor  and  he  had  been 
strangers  to  each  other  .  .  .  and  now  she  was  about  to  bear 
a  child  to  him ! 

"I  must  work  hard,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  then  to  her, 
' '  Of  course,  you  can 't  go  back  to  Mr.  Crawford.  I  '11  write 
to  my  mother  and  tell  her ! ' ' 

He  remembered  the  commission  from  Hinde,  and  while 
he  was  telling  her  of  it,  the  postman  delivered  a  letter  from 
the  Herald  in  which  was  the  invitation  card  for  the  cere- 
mony in  Westminster  Abbey. 

She  examined  it  with  interest.  "But  it  says  Morning 
Dress  must  be  worn, ' '  she  exclaimed,  pointing  to  the  notice 
in  the  corner  of  the  card.  ' '  You  haven 't  got  any  Morning 
Dress!" 

"Do  you  think  it'll  matter?" 

' '  They  may  not  let  you  in  if  you  go  as  you  are  now.  You 
haven't  even  a  silk  hat!" 

"What  shall  I  do  then?"  he  asked. 

"We  must  think  of  something.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Town- 
ley's  husband  would  lend  you  his  silk  hat!"  The  Town- 
leys  were  their  neighbours.  ' '  He  hardly  ever  wears  it,  and 
he 's  about  your  size ! ' ' 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  ask  them!  ..." 

"Oh,  I'll  ask  them  all  right,"  Eleanor  said. 

She  left  the  flat  and  crossed  the  staircase  to  the  door  of 
the  Townleys'  flat,  and  after  a  little  while,  she  returned 
carrying  a  silk  hat  that  was  much  in  need  of  ironing. 

"She  lent  it  quite  willingly,"  Eleanor  said.  "She  says 
Mr.  Townley's  only  used  it  twice.  Once  when  they  were 


362  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

married  and  once  at  a  funeral.  Put  it  on ! "  She  fixed  it 
on  his  head.  "It  doesn't  quite  fit,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  if 
I  were  to  put  some  paper  inside  the  band,  that  would  make 
it  sit  better!" 

She  lined  the  hat  with  tissue  paper  and  then  put  it  on  his 
head  again.  ' '  That 's  a  lot  better, ' '  she  exclaimed.  ' '  Look 
at  yourself  in  the  glass ! ' ' 

"I  feel  an  awful  fool  in  it,"  he  murmured,  glancing  at 
his  reflection  in  the  mirror. 

' '  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  all  men  do  feel  like  fools  when  they 
put  on  silk  hats  ...  at  first  anyhow  .  .  .  but  it  isn't  any 
worse  than  a  bowler  hat  or  one  of  those  awful  squash-hats 
that  Socialists  wear.  Men's  hats  are  hideous  whatever 
shape  they  are.  I  don't  know  what  we're  to  do  about  a 
morning  coat  for  you.  I  didn't  like  to  ask  Mrs.  Townley 
to  lend  her  husband 's  to  me !  .  .  . " 

' '  Good  Lord,  no !  You  can 't  borrow  the  man 's  entire 
wardrobe  from  him ! ' ' 

"Your  grey  flannel  trousers  might  look  like  ordinary 
trousers,  if  we  could  get  a  morning-coat  for  you!"  She 
paused  as  if  she  were  reflecting  on  the  problem.  ' '  I  know, ' ' 
she  said  at  last.  "It's  sure  to  rain  in  the  morning.  King 
George  is  going  to  the  thing,  so  it's  sure  to  rain.  "Wear 
your  overcoat  .  .  .  then  you  won't  need  a  morning  coat 
.  .  .  and  the  silk  hat  and  your  grey  flannel  trousers  and 
your  patent  leather  boots !  .  .  . " 

"  It 's  a  bit  of  a  mixture,  isn  't  it  ? " 

"It  won't  be  noticed.  That'll  do  very  nicely!  Thank 
goodness,  we've  solved  that  problem!  The  money  will  be 
useful,  dearest ! ' ' 


"What  luck!"  said  Eleanor,  looking  out  of  the  window 
in  the  morning.  The  sky  was  grey  and  the  streets  were 
wet  and  dirty. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  363 

John  had  urged  her  to  stay  at  home,  offering  to  explain 
to  Mr.  Crawford  why  she  was  not  returning  to  her  employ- 
ment, but  she  had  insisted  that  she  was  well  enough  now  and 
must  treat  Mr.  Crawford  as  fairly  as  he  had  treated  her. 
"I'll  give  notice  to  him  at  once,"  she  said,  "and  he  can 
get  someone  else  as  soon  as  possible  .  .  .  but  I  can't  leave 
him  in  the  lurch ! ' ' 

They  travelled  by  Tube  to  town  together,  and  John  went 
on  to  Westminster  Abbey.  He  was  very  early  and  when  he 
arrived  at  the  entrance  nominated  on  the  Invitation  Card 
he  found  that  he  was  the  first  arrival.  Ten  minutes  after- 
wards, a  grubby-looking  man  in  a  slouch  hat  ambled  up  the 
asphalt  path  to  the  narrow  door  against  which  John  was 
leaning.  "Good  morning!"  John  said,  glancing  at  the 
slouch  hat  and  the  shabby  reefer  coat  and  the  brown  boots. 
' '  Have  you  come  to  do  this  ceremony,  too  ? ' '  The  man 
nodded  his  head.  He  was  very  uncommunicative  and  had 
a  surly  look.  ' '  But  they  won 't  let  you  in,  like  that ! ' '  said 
John. 

"Won't  let  me  in!  Who  won't  let  me  in?"  the  man 
demanded. 

"It  says  'Morning  Dress  to  be  worn'  on  the  Invitation 
Card,"  John  answered,  showing  his  card  as  he  spoke. 

' '  That 's  all  bunkum !  They  'd  let  me  in  if  I  were  naked. 
I'm  here  to  report  the  performance,  not  to  display  my  ele- 
gance, and  these  people  want  the  thing  reported  as  much  as 
possible.  I  don't  suppose  you  know  me?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  John. 

"Well,  I'm  known  as  the  Funeral  Expert  in  Fleet  Street. 
ATy  paper  always  sends  me  out  on  special  occasions  to  report 
big  funerals.  I'm  very  good  at  that  sort  of  thing.  I  seem 
to  have  a  flair  for  funerals  somehow.  I've  never  done  a 
show  like  this  before,  but  if  I  can  only  persuade  myself  to 
believe  that  there's  a  corpse  about,  I'll  do  it  better  than 
anybody  else.  I  make  a  specialty  of  quoting  the  more  lit- 
erary parts  of  the  Burial  Service  in  my  reports!  ..." 


364  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"You  won't  be  able  to  do  that  to-day.  This  isn't  a  fu- 
neral, ' '  said  John. 

' '  No,  but  I  can  quote  the  hymns  if  they  've  got  any  merit 
at  all.  Otherwise  I  shall  drag  in  the  psalms.  Hymns 
aren't  very  quotable  as  a  rule.  Shocking  doggerel  most  of 
'em!  .  .  ." 

They  were  joined  by  other  reporters,  and  John  observed 
that  he  alone  among  them  was  wearing  a  silk  hat.  He  com- 
mented on  the  fact  to  the  Funeral  Expert. 

"There's  only  one  silk  hat  in  the  whole  of  Fleet  Street," 
the  Funeral  Expert  replied, ' '  and  it  belongs  to  the  man  who 
specialises  in  Murders.  He  never  investigates  a  murder 
without  wearing  his  silk  hat.  He  says  it's  in  keeping  with 
the  theme!" 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  verger  and  the  journalists  en- 
tered the  Abbey  and  were  led  up  some  very  narrow  and 
dark  and  damp  stone  stairs  until  at  last  they  emerged  on  to 
a  rude  platform  of  planks  high  up  in  the  roof.  At  one  end 
of  the  platform  a  pole  had  been  placed  breast-high  between 
two  pillars,  and  against  this  the  journalists  were  invited 
to  lean.  Far  below,  the  ceremony  was  to  take  place. 
John  felt  giddy  as  he  looked  down  on  the  floor  of  the 
Cathedral. 

"We  shan't  be  able  to  see  anything  up  here,"  he  said 
to  the  Funeral  Expert. 

"What  do  you  want  to  see?"  was  the  reply  he  received. 
"You've  got  a  programme  of  tne  ceremony,  haven't  you, 
and  an  imagination.  That's  all  you  need.  I  suppose 
you've  never  done  a  job  of  this  sort  before?" 

"No.     I'm  a  beginner!" 

"Well,  write  a  lot  of  slushy  stuff  about  the  sun  shining 
through  the  rose-coloured  window  just  as  the  King  entered 
the  Abbey.  That  always  goes  down  well.  There  are  three 
psalms  to  be  sung  during  the  service.  If  you  quote  the  first 
one,  I  '11  quote  the  second,  and  then  we  shan  't  clash.  Is  that 
agreed  ? ' ' 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  365 

"All  right!" 

Half  the  journalists  retreated  from  the  pole-barrier  and 
sat  on  a  pile  of  planks  at  the  back  of  the  platform.  Like 
John,  they  suffered  from  giddiness.  They  had  their  writ- 
ing-pads open,  however,  and  were  busily  engaged  in  invent- 
ing accounts  of  the  ceremonial  that  was  presently  to  be  per- 
formed. John  glanced  over  a  man's  shoulder  and  caught 
sight  of  the  words,  "As  His  Majesty  entered  the  ancient 
abbey,  a  burst  of  sunlight  fell  through  the  old  rose  window 
and  cast  a  glorious  crimson  light  on  his  beautiful  re- 
galia! .  .  ." 

' '  Lord ! ' '  said  John,  moving  away. 

He  went  to  the  end  of  the  platform,  and  then,  moved  by 
some  feeling  which  he  could  not  explain,  descended  the 
dark,  stone  stairs  which  he  had  lately  mounted.  He  could 
hear  the  music  of  the  organ,  and  presently  the  choir  be- 
gan to  sing  an  anthem. 

"I  suppose  it's  beginning,"  he  thought. 

He  reached  the  ground-floor,  and  presently  found  himself 
standing  behind  a  stone-screen  in  the  company  of  selected 
persons  and  officials  in  brilliant  uniforms.  There  were 
three  special  reporters  here,  to  whom  an  official  in  a  gor- 
geous green  garb,  looking  very  like  a  figure  on  a  pack  of 
cards,  was  giving  information.  John  edged  nearer  to  them, 
and  as  he  did  so,  he  saw  that  some  ceremony  was  proceeding 
in  one  of  the  chapels. 

"What's  happening?"  he  asked  in  a  whisper. 

His  neighbor  whispered  back  that  this  was  to  be  the 
chapel  of  the  Order  of  the  Bath,  and  that  the  King  was 
about  to  conduct  some  ceremonial  with  the  Knights  of  the 
Order.  He  raised  himself  on  the  edge  of  a  tomb  and  saw 
two  lines  of  old  men  in  rich  claret-coloured  robes  facing 
each  other,  with  a  broad  space  between  them,  and  while  he 
looked,  the  King  passed  between  the  Knights  who  bowed  to 
him  as  he  passed  towards  the  altar.  He  heard  the  murmur 
of  old,  feeble  voices  as  the  Knights  swore  to  protect  the 


366  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

widow  and  the  orphan  and  the  virgin  from  wrong  and  in- 
jury! .  .  . 

' '  They  haven 't  the  strength  to  protect  a  fly, ' '  John  whis- 
pered to  his  neighbour. 

' '  Ssh ! "  his  neighbour  whispered  back,  "  it 's  a  symbolical 
promise!  ..." 

vi 

He  hurried  to  the  offices  of  the  Evening  Herald  and  wrote 
his  account  of  the  ceremony  he  had  seen.  He  described  the 
old  and  venerable  men  who  had  sworn  to  protect  the  widow 
and  the  orphan  and  the  distressed  virgin,  and  demanded  of 
those  in  authority  by  what  right  they  degraded  an  ancient 
and  honourable  Order  by  allowing  feeble  octogenarians  to 
make  promises  they  were  incapable  of  fulfilling.  Heaven 
help  the  distressed  virgin  who  depended  on  these  tottering 
knights  for  succour !  .  .  .  He  had  written  half  a  column  of 
very  vituperative  stuff  when  Hinde  came  into  the  room. 

"Hilloa,"  said  Hinde,  "done  that  job  all  right?" 

John  smiled  and  nodded  his  head. 

"I've  got  a  letter  for  you,"  Hinde  continued.  "Cream 
sent  it  to  me  and  asked  me  to  pass  it  on  to  you.  He  hasn  't 
got  your  address ! ' ' 

He  handed  the  letter  to  John  and  then  picked  up  some 
of  the  sheets  on  which  the  report  of  the  ceremony  in  the 
Abbey  was  being  written.  He  read  the  first  two  sheets  and 
then  uttered  a  sharp  exclamation. 

' '  Anything  wrong  ? ' '  John  asked. 

"Wrong!"  Hinde  gaped  at  him,  incapable  of  expressing 
himself  with  sufficient  force.  He  swallowed  and  then,  with 
a  great  effort,  spoke  very  calmly.  "My  dear  chap,"  he 
said,  ' '  I  regard  it  as  a  merciful  act  of  God  that  I  carne  into 
this  room  when  I  did.  What  the!  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  it's  no 
good  talking  to  you.  You're  absolutely  hopeless ! " 

' '  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ? ' ' 

' '  Matter !     I  can 't  print  your  stuff.     I  should  get  the  sack 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  367 

if  I  were  to  let  this  sort  of  thing  go  into  the  paper. 
Haven't  you  any  sense  of  proportion  at  all?" 

"But  the  whole  thing  was  ridiculous!  ..." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  Half  the  world  is 
ridiculous,  but  there's  no  need  to  run  about  telling  every- 
body!" 

"But  if  you'd  seen  them  .  .  .  old  fellows  swearing  to 
draw  their  swords  in  defence  of  women  and  children,  and 
them  not  fit  to  do  more  than  draw  their  pensions!  ..." 

' '  Yes,  yes,  we  know  all  about  that.  But  a  certain  amount 
of  humbug  is  decent  and  necessary!"  He  turned  to  a 
young  man  who  had  just  entered  the  room.  "Here,  Chil- 
vers,  I  want  you  to  do  a  couple  of  columns  on  that  stunt 
at  the  Abbey  this  morning ! ' ' 

1 '  Righto, ' '  said  Chilvers. 

' '  But  he  wasn  't  there ! ' '  John  protested. 

"Wasn't  there!"  Hinde  echoed  scornfully.  "A  good 
journalist  doesn't  need  to  be  there.  Just  give  the  pro- 
gramme to  him,  will  you?"  John  handed  the  order  of 
proceedings  to  Chilvers,  and  Hinde  added  a  few  instruc- 
tions. ' '  Write  up  the  King, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Every  inch  a  sov- 
ereign and  that  sort  of  stuff.  Royal  dignity!  .  .  .  Was 
Kitchener  there?"  he  said  turning  again  to  John. 

"Yes.     A  disappointing-looking  man!  ..." 

"Write  him  up,  too.  Say  something  about  soldierly  mien 
and  stern,  unbending  features ! ' ' 

' '  I  see, ' '  said  Chilvers.  ' '  The  other  chaps.  ...  I  '11  work 
them  off  as  venerable  wiseacres !  .  .  . " 

"No,  don't  rub  their  age  in.  Venerable 's  not  a  nice  word 
to  use  about  anything  except  a  cathedral.  You  can  call  the 
Abbey  a  venerable  edifice  or  the  sacred  fane,  but  it  would 
look  nicer  if  you  call  the  old  buffers  "the  Elder  States- 
men." Good  phrase  that !  Hasn't  been  used  much,  either. 
Get  it  done  quickly,  will  you?"  He  turned  to  John. 
"You  might  have  made  us  miss  the  Home  Edition  with 
your  desire  to  tell  the  truth ! ' ' 


368  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

John  turned  away.  The  sense  of  failure  that  had  been 
in  possession  of  him  since  the  production  of  Alilchu  and  St. 
Patrick  filled  him  now  and  made  him  feel  terribly  desolate. 
Whatever  he  did  seemed  to  fail.  Pie  set  off  with  high  hopes 
and  fine  intentions,  but  when  he  reached  his  destination,  his 
arrival  seemed  to  be  of  very  little  importance  and  his  small 
boat  seemed  to  be  very  small  and  his  cargo  of  slight  value. 
Almost  mechanically  he  opened  Cream  If  letter.  Hinde, 
having  discussed  other  matters  with  Chilvers,  called  to  John. 
* '  Come  and  see  me  in  my  room,  will  you,  before  you  go ! " 
and  John  answered,  "Very  good!  He  read  Cream's  note. 
Cream  had  suddenly  to  produce  a  new  sketch,  and  he  had 
overhauled  John's  piece  and  put  it  on  at  the  Wolverhamp- 
ton  Coliseum.  "It  went  with  a  ~bang,  my  boy!  Absolutely 
knocked  'em  clean  off  their  perch!  I  wish  you'd  do  an- 
other! .  .  ." 

He  enclosed  postal  orders  for  two  pounds,  the  fee  for 
one  week's  performance.  John  put  the  letter  into  his 
pocket  and,  nodding  to  Chilvers,  now  busily  writing  up  the 
King  and  Lord  Kitchener,  he  left  the  room  and  went  to 
Hinde 's  office. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mac,"  Hinde  said  to  him,  "I'm  sorry  I  let 
out  at  you  just  now,  but  you  gave  me  a  fright.  I'd  have 
been  fired  if  I  'd  let  your  thing  go  to  press ! ' ' 

"I  quite  understand,"  John  answered.  "I  see  that  I'm 
not  fit  for  this  sort  of  work.  I  don't  seem  to  be  much  good 
at  anything ! ' ' 

"What  about  Cream?  He  told  me  he'd  done  your  sketch 
very  successfully ! ' ' 

John  passed  Cream's  letter  to  him.  "Well,  you  can  do 
that  sort  of  thing  all  right  anyhow,"  Hinde  said  when  he 
had  read  the  letter. 

' '  Cream  re-wrote  it, ' '  John  murmured.  ' '  And  even  if  he 
hadn't,  it's  not  much  of  an  achievement,  is  it?  I  wanted 
to  write  good  stuff,  and  I  can't  do  it.  I  can't  even  do  de- 
cent journalism !  ..." 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  369 

"Oh,  those  articles  you  do  aren't  too  bad,"  Hinde  said 
encouragingly. 

"What  are  a  few  articles!  The  only  success  I  have  is 
with  a  low  music-hall  sketch,  and  even  that  has  to  be  re- 
written ! ' ' 

"Come,  come!"  said  Hinde.  "You're  feeling  depressed 
now.  You'll  change  your  mind  presently.  I  daresay 
there's  plenty  of  good  stuff  in  you  and  one  of  these  days 
it'll  come  out.  You  needn't  get  into  the  dumps  because 
you've  failed  to  make  good  as  a  journalist.  God  knows 
that 's  no  triumphant  career !  Plenty  of  good  writers  have 
tried  to  make  a  living  at  journalism  and  failed  hopelessly. 
Haven't  had  half  the  success  you've  had!  Finished  that 
new  book  of  yours  yet  ? ' ' 

"Very  nearly!" 

"I  suppose  Jannissary  is  going  to  do  it,  too?" 

1 '  Yes.     I  've  contracted  for  three  novels  with  him ! ' ' 

"I  wonder  how  that  man  would  live  if  it  weren't  for  the 
vanity  of  young  authors ! ' ' 

"I  don't  know,"  said  John.  "I'm  too  busy  wondering 
how  young  authors  manage  to  live!" 


THE  THIRD  CHAPTER 


THE  money  derived  from  Cream's  sketch  had  compensated 
them  for  the  loss  of  the  money  earned  by  Eleanor ;  but  two 
pounds  per  week  was  insufficient  for  their  needs,  and,  now 
that  the  bank  balance  was  exhausted  and  they  were  depend- 
ent upon  actual  earnings,  John  had  less  time  for  creative 
work.  Free  lance  journalism  seemed  likely  to  provide  an 
adequate  income  for  them,  but  he  soon  discovered  that  if 
he  were  to  make  a  reasonable  livelihood  from  it,  he  must 
give  up  the  greater  part  of  his  time  and  thought  to  it.  He 
could  not  depend  upon  certain  or  immediate  acceptance  of 
any  article  he  wrote  for  the  newspapers.  Sometimes  a  top- 
ical article  was  sent  to  the  wrong  newspaper  and  kept  there 
until  too  late  for  publication  in  another  newspaper.  Reg- 
ularly-employed journalists,  engaged  to  choose  contribu- 
tions from  outside  writers,  were  extraordinarily  inconsid- 
erate in  their  relationships  with  him.  They  would  hold  up 
a  manuscript  for  a  long  time  and  then  arbitrarily  return 
it;  they  would  return  a  manuscript  in  a  dirty  state,  even 
scribbled  over,  because  they  had  capriciously  changed  their 
minds  about  it,  and  he  would  waste  time  and  money  in  hav- 
ing it  re-typed;  they  even  mislaid  manuscripts  and  offered 
neither  compensation  nor  apology  for  so  doing.  ...  In  a 
very  short  while,  John  discovered  that  the  more  high- 
minded  were  the  principles  professed  by  a  newspaper,  the 
worse  was  the  payment  made  to  its  contributors  and  the 
longer  was  the  time  consumed  in  making  the  payment.  The 
low-minded  journals  paid  for  contributions  well  and 
quickly,  but  the  noble-minded  journals  kept  their  contribu- 

370 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  371 

tors  waiting  weeks  for  small  sums.  .  .  .  He  could  not  de- 
pend upon  the  publication  of  one  article  each  week.  Could 
he  have  done  so,  his  financial  position,  while  meagre,  would 
have  been  fairly  easy  and  regular.  There  were  weeks  when 
no  money  was  earned,  and  there  were  weeks  when  he  earned 
ten  or  twelve  guineas  .  .  .  gay,  exhilarating  weeks  were 
those  .  .  .  and  there  were  even  weeks  when  he  could 
not  think  of  a  suitable  theme  for  an  acceptable  article.  In 
this  state  of  uncertainty  and  constant  effort  to  get  enough 
money  to  pay  for  common  needs,  the  second  novel  became 
neglected,  and  it  was  not  until  several  months  after  the  ad- 
venture at  Westminster  Abbey  that  the  manuscript  was 
completed  and  sent  to  Mr.  Jannissary.  By  that  time,  John 
was  in  debt  to  tradesmen  and  to  a  typewriting  company 
from  which  he  had  purchased  a  typewriter  on  the  hire  sys- 
tem. The  Cottenham  Repertory  Theatre  had  failed  to  ar- 
range a  London  season,  consequently  he  had  had  no  further 
income  from  Milchu  and  St.  Patrick,  and  Mr.  Jannissary, 
when  John  talked  about  royalties  from  The  Enchanted 
Lover,  never  failed  to  express  his  astonishment  at  the  fact 
that  the  sales  of  that  excellent  book  had  not  exceeded  five 
hundred  copies.  He  had  been  certain  that  at  least  a  thou- 
sand copies  would  have  been  sold  as  a  result  of  the  boom  in 
the  Evening  Herald. 

"Why  don't  you  put  a  chartered  accountant  on  his 
track  ? ' '  said  Hinde  when  John  told  him  of  what  Mr.  Jan- 
nissary had  said. 

John  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His  experience  with  the 
Cottenham  Repertory  Theatre  had  cured  him  of  all  desire 
to  send  good  money  after  bad.  He  wished  now  that  he 
had  taken  Hinde 's  advice  and  had  kept  away  from  Mr. 
Jannissary,  but  it  was  useless  to  repine  over  that.  He 
turned  instinctively  to  Hinde  for  advice,  and  Hinde  was 
generous  with  it.  He  was  generous,  too,  with  more  profit- 
able things.  He  put  work  in  John's  way  as  often  as  he 
could,  and  in  spite  of  the  fiasco  over  the  Abbey  ceremony, 


37S  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

had  offered  employment  on  the  Herald  to  him,  but  John  had 
refused  it,  feeling  that  his  novel  would  never  reach  its  end 
if  he  were  tied  to  a  newspaper.  When,  however,  the  book 
was  completed,  he  went  to  Hinde  again  and  consulted  him 
about  the  prospect  of  obtaining  regular  work.  His  imme- 
diate needs  were  important,  but  overshadowing  these  was 
the  need  that  would  presently  come  upon  him.  Eleanor  in 
a  few  months  would  be  brought  to  bed  .  .  .  and  he  had  no 
money  saved  for  that  time.  She  would  need  a  nurse  .  .  . 
there  would  be  doctor's  bills!  .  .  . 

"I  must  get  a  job  of  some  sort  that  will  bring  a  decent 
amount  of  money, ' '  he  said  to  Hinde. 

Hinde  nodded  his  head.  ''There's  nothing  on  the  Her- 
ald," he  said,  "but  I  may  hear  of  something  elsewhere. 
What  about  a  short  series  of  articles  for  us?  Write  six  or 
seven  articles  on  London  Streets.  Take  Fleet  Street,  Pic- 
cadilly, Bond  Street,  the  Strand  and  the  Mile  End  Road, 
and  write  about  their  characteristics,  showing  how  different 
they  are  from  each  other.  That  kind  of  stuff.  I'll  give 
you  three  guineas  each  for  them,  and  I'll  take  six  for  cer- 
tain if  they're  good.  If  they're  very  good,  I'll  take  some 
more.  That'll  help  a  bit,  won't  it?" 

"It'll  help  a  lot,"  said  John  very  heartily. 

ii 

Soon  after  this  interview,  Hinde  informed  John  that  the 
Sensation  had  a  vacancy  for  a  sub-editor,  and  that  Mr.  Clot- 
worthy  was  willing  to  try  him  in  the  job  for  a  month. 
' '  And  for  heaven 's  sake,  don 't  make  an  ass  of  yourself  this 
time ! "  he  added.  ' '  Clotworthy  was  very  unwilling  to  take 
you  on,  but  I  convinced  him  that  you  are  sensible  now  and 
so  he  consented!"  John  had  taken  the  news  to  Eleanor, 
expecting  that  she  would  be  elated  by  it,  but  when  he  told 
her  that  his  work  would  keep  him  in  Fleet  Street  half  the 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  373 

night,  she  showed  very  little  enthusiasm  for  it.  Her  nor- 
mal dislike  of  being  alone  was  intensified  now,  and  the 
thought  of  being  in  the  flat  by  herself  until  one  or  two  in 
the  morning  frightened  her.  "I  shan't  see  anything  of 
you,"  she  complained. 

"I  shall  be  at  home  in  the  daytime,"  he  replied. 

"Yes  .  .  .  writing, "  she  said  bitterly.  " People  like  you 
have  no  right  to  get  married  or  ...  have  children ! ' ' 

He  considered  for  a  while. 

"I  wonder  if  my  mother  would  come  and  stay  with  us?" 
he  said  at  last. 

"And  leave  Uncle  William  alone?" 

"Oh,  he  could  manage  all  right!" 

' '  Don 't  be  childish,  John.  How  can  he  manage  all  right  ? 
Is  he  to  attend  to  the  house  and  cook  his  meals  as  well 
as  look  after  the  shop?  It  looks  as  if  someone  has  got  to 
be  left  alone  through  this  work  of  yours  .  .  .  either  me  or 
Uncle  William  .  .  .  and  you  don't  care  much  who  it 
is!  .  .  ." 

' '  That 's  unfair,  Eleanor ! ' ' 

"Everything's  unfair  that  isn't  just  exactly  what  you 
want  it  to  be.  I'm  sick  of  this  life  .  .  .  debt  and  discom- 
fort .  .  .  and  now  I'm  to  be  left  alone  half  the  night!  ..." 

He  remembered  that  she  was  overwrought,  and  made  no 
answer  to  her  complaint.  He  would  write  to  his  mother  and 
ask  her  to  think  of  a  solution  of  their  problem  that  would 
not  involve  Uncle  William  in  difficulties.  It  was  useless 
to  talk  to  Eleanor  while  she  was  in  this  nervous  state  of 
mind.  He  could  see  quite  plainly  that  decisions  must  be 
made  by  him  even  against  her  desire.  Poor  Eleanor  would 
realise  all  this  after  the  baby  was  born,  and  would  thank 
him  for  not  showing  signs  of  weakness!  .  .  .  He  wrote  to 
Mr.  Clotworthy,  as  Hinde  had  suggested,  about  the  sub-edi- 
torial work,  and  to  his  mother  about  the  problem  that  puz- 
zled them. 


374  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

iii 

Mrs.  MacDermott  solved  the  problem,  not  by  letter,  but 
by  word  of  mouth.  She  telegraphed  to  John  to  meet  her  at 
Euston,  and  on  the  way  from  the  station  to  Hampstead,  she 
told  him  of  her  plan. 

"I'd  settled  this  in  my  mind  from  the  beginning,"  she 
said,  ' '  and  you  Ve  only  just  advanced  things  a  week  or  two 
by  your  letter.  I'm  going  to  take  Eleanor  back  to  Bally- 
ards  with  me!  .  .  ." 

"What  for?" 

"What  for!"  she  exclaimed.  "So's  your  child  can  be 
born  in  the  house  where  you  were  born  and  your  da  and  his 
da !  ...  That 's  why !  Where  else  would  a  MacDermott  be 
born  but  in  his  own  home  ? ' ' 

"But  what  about  me?" 

' '  You !    You  can  come  home  too,  if  you  like ! ' ' 

"How  can  I  come  home  when  I  have  my  work  to  do? 
It'll  be  three  months  yet  before  the  child  is  born!  ..." 

' '  Well,  you  can  stay  here  by  yourself  then ! ' ' 

"In  the  flat  .  .  .  alone?" 

' '  Aye.  What 's  to  hinder  you  ?  That 's  what  your  Uncle 
William  that 's  twice  your  age  would  have  to  do,  if  you  had 
your  way!" 

' '  I  don 't  see  that  at  all.  He  could  easily  give  Cassie  Mc- 
Clurg  a  few  shillings  a  week  to  come  and  look  after  him 
while  you  stay  here  with  us !  .  .  . " 

"I'm  not  thinking  about  you  or  your  Uncle  William. 
I'm  thinking  about  Eleanor  and  the  child.  I  want  it  to  be 
born  at  home ! ' ' 

"Och,  what  does  it  matter  where  it's  born,"  John  impa- 
tiently demanded,  ' '  so  long  as  it  is  born  ? ' ' 

"You  fool!"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott,  and  there  was  such 
scorn  in  her  voice  as  John  had  never  heard  in  any  voice  be- 
fore. She  turned  away  and  would  not  speak  to  him  again. 
He  lay  back  against  the  cushions  of  the  cab  and  considered. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  375 

Eleanor  would  certainly  be  well  cared  for  at  home,  but  .  .  . 
"what  about  me?"  he  asked.  He  supposed  he  could  man- 
age by  himself.  Of  course,  he  could.  That  was  not  the 
point  that  was  worrying  him.  He  hated  the  thought  of  be- 
ing separated  from  Eleanor !  .  .  . 

"No,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  "I  don't  think  I  can  agree 
to  that!" 

"It  doesn't  matter  whether  you  agree  to  it  or  not,"  she 
replied.  "It's  what's  going  to  happen!"  She  turned  on 
him  furiously.  "Have  you  no  nature  or  pride?  Where 
else  would  Eleanor  be  so  well-tended  as  at  home  ?  .  .  . " 

"It  isn't  her  home,"  he  objected. 

"It  is  her  home.  She's  a  MacDermott  now,  and  anyway 
the  child  is.  You'd  keep  her  here  in  this  Godforsaken 
town,  surrounded  by  strangers,  and  no  relation  of  her  own 
to  be  near  her  when  her  trouble  comes !  .  .  .  There 's  times, 
John,  when  I  wonder  are  you  a  man  at  all  ?  Your  mind  is 
so  set  on  yourself  that  you're  like  a  lump  of  stone.  You 
and  your  old  books  ...  as  if  they  matter  a  tinker's  curse 
to  anybody!  ..." 

"I  know  you  never  thought  anything  of  my  work,"  he 
complained,  "and  Eleanor  doesn't  think  much  of  it  either. 
I  get  little  encouragement  from  any  of  you ! ' ' 

"You  get  encouragement,"  Mrs.  MacDermott  retorted, 
"when  you've  earned  it.  It's  no  use  pulling  a  poor  mouth 
to  me,  my  son.  I  come  from  a  family  that  never  asked  for 
pity,  and  I  married  into  one  that  never  asked  for  pity.  My 
family  and  your  da 's  family  went  through  the  world,  giving 
back  as  much  as  we  got  and  a  wee  bit  more,  and  we  never 
let  a  murmur  out  of  us  when  we  got  hurt.  There  were 
times  when  I  thought  it  was  hard  on  the  women  of  the  fam- 
ily, but  I  see  now,  well  and  plain,  that  there's  no  pleasure 
in  this  world  but  to  be  keeping  your  head  high  and  never  to 
let  nothing  downcast  you.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  be  a  cry- 
ba!  .  .  ." 

"I'm  no  cry-ba!"  he  muttered  sulkily. 


376  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

' '  Well,  prove  it  then.  Let  Eleanor  come  without  making 
a  sour  face  over  it.  Come  yourself  if  you  want  to,  but  any- 
way let  her  come ! ' ' 

"I  don't  believe  she'll  go,"  he  said. 

' '  She  will,  if  you  persuade  her ! ' '  Suddenly  her  tone  al- 
tered, and  the  hard  tone  went  out  of  her  voice.  She  leant 
towards  him,  touching  him  on  the  arm.  "Persuade  her, 
son!"  she  said.  "My  heart's  hungry  to  have  her  child 
born  in  its  own  home  among  its  own  people ! ' ' 

She  looked  at  him  so  pleadingly  that  he  was  deeply 
moved.  He  felt  his  blood  calling  to  him,  and  the  ties  of 
kinship  stirring  strongly  in  his  heart.  Pictures  of  Bally- 
ards  passed  swiftly  through  his  mind,  and  in  rapid  succes- 
sion he  saw  the  shop  and  Uncle  Matthew  and  Uncle  William 
and  Mr.  McCaughan  and  Mr.  Cairnduff  and  the  Logans  and 
the  Square  and  the  Lough,  and  could  smell  the  sweet  odours 
of  the  country,  the  smell  of  wet  earth  and  the  reek  of  turf 
fires  and  the  cold  smell  of  brackish  water.  .  .  . 

"Have  your  own  way,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  and  she 
drew  him  to  her  and  kissed  him  more  tenderly  than  she  had 
kissed  him  for  many  years. 

iv 

When  they  told  their  plan  to  Eleanor  her  eyes  lit  up 
immediately,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  eager  to  go  to  Bally- 
ards,  but  almost  at  once,  she  turned  to  him  and  said,  "Oh, 
but  you,  John  ?  What  about  you  ? ' ' 

"I'll  be  all  right,"  he  replied.  "Don't  worry  about 
me!" 

"Couldn't  you  come,  too?" 

"You  know  I  can't.  How  can  I  give  up  this  job  on  the 
Sensation  the  minute  I've  got  it!" 

"Easy  enough,"  Mrs.  MacDermott  interjected.  "If 
you've  only  just  got  it,  there'll  be  no  hardship  to  you  or 
to  them  if  you  give  it  up  now ! ' ' 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  377 

"I  have  to  earn  our  keep,"  he  insisted. 

"There's  the  shop,"  Mrs.  MacDermott  insisted. 

"I  won't  go  next  or  near  the  shop,"  he  shouted  in  sud- 
den fury.  "I  came  here  to  write  books  and  I'll  write 
them!" 

"You're  not  writing  books  when  you're  sitting  up  half 
the  night  in  a  newspaper  office!" 

"I  know  I'm  not.  But  I  must  get  money  to  ...  to  pay 
for!  .  .  ." 

"Are  you  worrying  yourself  about  Eleanor's  confine- 
ment, son?  Never  bother  your  head  about  that.  I'll  not 
let  her  want  for  anything !  .  .  . " 

' '  I  know  you  won 't, ' '  he  replied  in  a  softer  voice,  ' '  but 
I  'd  rather  earn  the  money  myself ! ' ' 

Mrs.  MacDermott  tightened  her  mouth.  "Very  well," 
she  said. 

"I've  a  good  mind  to  let  the  flat  till  you  come  back," 
John  murmured  to  Eleanor. 

"What's  that?"  Mrs.  MacDermott  demanded. 

"I  was  saying  I'd  a  good  mind  to  let  the  flat  until  she 
comes  back.  I  could  go  to  Miss  Squibb 's  for  a  while.  It 
'ud  really  be  cheaper !  .  .  . " 

"Would  you  let  strangers  walk  into  your  house  and  use 
your  furniture?" 

"Yes.  Why  not?  We  shall  be  able  to  pay  the  rent  and 
have  a  profit  out  of  what  we  shall  get  for  sub-letting  it. ' ' 

"Making  a  hotel  out  of  your  home,"  Mrs.  MacDermott 
said  in  disgust. 

' '  Och,  we  're  not  all  home-mad, ' '  John  retorted. 

"That's  the  pity,"  his  mother  rejoined, 


Three  weeks  later,  Eleanor  and  Mrs.  MacDermott  de- 
parted for  Ballyards.  Eleanor  had  refused  to  go  away 
from  London  until  she  had  seen  John  settled  in  his  work 


378  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

and  the  flat  sub-let  to  suitable  tenants.  She  arranged  for 
his  return  to  Miss  Squibb  who,  most  opportunely,  had  his 
old  room  vacant,  and  she  made  Lizzie  promise  to  take  par- 
ticular care  of  his  comfort.  "I  can  tyke  care  of  'im  all 
right,"  Lizzie  said.  ''I've  tyken  care  of  Mr.  'Inde  for 
years,  an'  I  feel  I  can  tyke  care  of  anybody  after  'im.  You 
leave  'im  to  me,  Mrs.  MacDermott,  an'  I  wown't  let  'im 
come  to  no  'arm ! ' '  She  leant  forward  suddenly  and  whis- 
pered to  Eleanor.  "  I  do  'ope  it 's  a  boy, ' '  she  said. 

"Why?"  said  Eleanor  blushing. 

"Ow,  I  dunno.  Looks  better  some'ow  to  'ave  a  boy  first 
go  off.  You  can  always  'ave  a  girl  afterwards.  Wot  you 
goin'  to  call  it,  if  it's  a  boy?" 

"John,  of  course !"  said  Eleanor. 

"Um-m-m.  Well,  I  suppose  you'll  'ave  to,  after  'is 
father,  but  if  I  'ad  a  son  I'd  call  'im  Perceval.  I  dunno 
why!  I  just  would.  It  sounds  nice  some'ow.  I  mean  it 
'as  a  nice  sound.  Only  people  'ud  call  'im  Perce,  of 
course,  an'  that  would  be  'orrible.  I  dessay  you're  right. 
It 's  better  to  be  called  John  than  to  be  called  Perce ! ' ' 

"Why  don't  you  get  married,  Lizzie?"  Eleanor  said. 

"Never  been  ast.  That's  why.  I'd  jump  at  the  chance 
if  I  got  it.  You  down't  think  I'm  'angin'  on  'ere  out  of 
love  for  Aunt.  I  'm  just  'angin '  on  in  'ope !  .  .  . " 

But  before  Eleanor  and  Mrs.  MacDermott  went  to  Bally  - 
ards,  they  realised  that  John's  sub-editorial  work  was 
hard  and  inconvenient.  The  unnatural  hours  of  labour  in 
noisy  and  insanitary  surroundings  left  him  very  tired  and 
crochetty  in  the  morning,  and  he  felt  disinclined  for  other 
work.  He  had  written  his  series  of  articles  on  London 
Streets  for  the  Evening  Herald,  and  Hinde  had  professed 
to  like  them  sufficiently  to  ask  for  more  of  them.  Twelve  of 
them  had  been  printed  .  .  .  one  each  day  for  a  fortnight 
.  .  .  and  the  money  had  cleared  John  of  debt  and  left  a  lit- 
tle for  the  coming  expense.  Cream's  two  pounds  per  week 
came  regularly  every  Monday  morning,  and  this,  with  the 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  379 

income  from  the  Sensation,  and  an  occasional  article  made 
the  prospects  of  life  seem  clearer.  ' '  There 's  no  fame  in  it, ' ' 
he  told  himself,  ' '  but  at  least  I  'm  paying  my  way ! "  In  a 
little  while,  his  second  novel  would  be  published,  and  per- 
haps it  would  bring  a  reward  which  he  had  unaccountably 
missed  with  his  first  book  and  his  tragedy.  More  than  any- 
thing else  now,  he  wanted  recognition.  Money  was  good 
and  acceptable  and  he  would  gladly  have  much  more  of  it, 
but  far  beyond  money  he  valued  recognition.  If  he  had  to 
make  choice  between  a  large  income  and  a  large  reputation, 
he  would  unhesitatingly  choose  a  large  reputation.  He 
longed  to  hear  Hinde  admitting  that  he  had  been  mistaken 
in  John's  quality.  Indeed,  in  the  last  analysis,  it  seemed 
that  more  than  money  and  more  than  general  recognition, 
he  craved  for  recognition  from  Hinde.  He  wished  to  see 
Hinde  coming  to  him  in  a  respectful  manner!  .  .  . 

But  there  was  little  likelihood  of  that  happening  while  he 
performed  sub-editorial  work  on  the  Sensation.  Every 
night  he  and  the  other  sub-editors,  young  and  unhealthy- 
looking  men,  sat  round  a  big  table,  handling  "flimsies"  and 
scribbling  rapidly.  They  invented  head-lines  and  cross- 
headings,  and  they  cut  down  the  work  of  the  outside  staff ! 
When  a  nugget  of  gold  was  found  in  Wales  and  was  pro- 
nounced to  be  a  lump  of  quartz  with  streaks  of  gold  in  it 
rather  than  a  nugget  of  pure  gold,  John  had  headed  the 
paragraph  in  which  the  news  was  reported,  ALL  IS  NOT 
GOLD  THAT  GLITTERS.  He  glanced  at  the  heading 
after  he  had  written  it.  "I  seem  to  be  getting  into  the  way 
of  this  sort  of  thing,"  he  said  with  a  sigh.  He  put  the 
paper  down  and  got  up  from  the  table.  The  baskets  lying 
about,  full  of  "copy"  or  "flimsies"  or  cuttings  from  other 
papers ;  the  hard,  blinding  light  from  the  unshaded  electric 
globes ;  the  litter  of  newspapers  and  torn  envelopes ;  the  in- 
cessant rurr-rurr-rurr  of  the  printing  machines;  and  the 
hot,  exhausted  air  of  the  room  ...  all  these  seemed  dis- 


380  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

gusting.  He  shut  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  "Oh,  God,"  he 
prayed,  "let  my  book  be  a  success !  Get  me  out  of  this,  Oh, 
God,  for  Jesus  Christ's  sake!  ..." 

He  understood  the  dislike  which  speedily  grew  up  in 
Eleanor  for  this  work.  There  would  be  very  little  fun  for 
her,  less  even  than  for  him,  in  a  life  that  took  him  to  Fleet 
Street  in  the  evening  and  kept  him  there  until  the  middle  of 
the  night.  He  must  escape  from  it  somehow,  but  in  what 
way  he  was  to  escape  from  it  he  could  not  imagine. 
Vaguely,  he  felt  that  a  book  or  a  play  would  lift  him  out 
of  Fleet  Street  and  set  him  down  in  ease  and  comfort  some- 
where in  agreeable  surroundings;  but  it  might  be  many 
years  before  that  desired  bliss  was  achieved.  He  would 
spend  his  youth  in  this  atmosphere  of  neurosis  and  hasty 
judgment,  and  perhaps  when  he  was  old  and  no  longer  full 
of  zest  for  enjoyment,  he  would  have  leisure  for  the  things 
he  could  no  longer  delight  in.  And  Eleanor,  too  .  .  .  she 
would  have  to  struggle  with  penury  until  she  grew  tired 
and  lustreless!  .  .  .  "No,  she  won't!"  he  vowed.  "I'm 
not  going  to  let  her  down  whatever  happens.  I'll  make  a 
position  somehow !  .  .  . " 

Then  Eleanor  and  Mrs.  MacDennott  went  to  Ballyards. 
He  stood  by  the  carriage-door  talking  to  them  both  while 
the  train  filled  with  passengers,  and  as  the  guard  blew  a  suc- 
cession of  blasts  on  his  whistle,  he  leant  forward  to  kiss 
Eleanor  ' '  Good-bye ! "  A  tear  rolled  down  her  cheek.  .  .  . 
' '  I  wish  I  weren  't  going  now, ' '  she  said,  clinging  to  him. 

"It  won't  be  for  long,"  he  murmured.  "Will  it, 
mother  ? "  he  added  to  Mrs.  MacDermott. 

But  his  mother  did  not  make  any  reply.  She  sat  very 
tightly  in  her  seat,  and  he  saw  that  there  was  a  hard 
look  in  her  eyes  and  that  her  lips  were  closely  joined 
together. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  381 

vi 

He  wandered  out  of  the  station  ...  it  was  Saturday 
night  and  therefore  he  had  not  to  go  to  the  Sensation  office 
.  .  .  and  entered  the  Hampstead  Tube  railway.  On  Mon- 
day, the  agent  would  make  an  inventory  of  the  furniture, 
and  John  would  move  to  Brixton.  Until  then,  he  would 
stay  at  the  flat,  taking  his  meals  at  restaurants.  He  left  the 
Tube  at  Hampstead  and  walked  home.  The  flat  seemed 
very  dark  and  cheerless  when  he  entered  it,  and  he  wan- 
dered from  room  to  room  in  a  disturbed  state  as  if  he  were 
searching  for  something  and  had  forgotten  for  what  he  was 
searching.  A  petticoat  of  Eleanor's,  flung  hastily  on  to 
the  bed,  caught  his  eye,  a  blue  silk  petticoat  that  he  remem- 
bered her  buying  soon  after  they  were  married.  He  won- 
dered why  she  had  thrown  it  aside,  for  she  was  fond  of 
blue  garments,  and  this  was  new  from  the  laundry.  He 
rubbed  his  hand  over  its  silk  surface  and  listened  to  the 
sound  it  made.  Dear  Eleanor!  Most  sweet  and  precious 
Eleanor !  .  .  .  He  left  the  bedroom  and  went  into  the  com- 
bined sitting  and  dining-room  and  then  into  the  kitchen. 
At  the  door  of  the  tiny  spare  bedroom,  he  stopped  and 
turned  away.  What  was  the  use  of  wandering  about  the 
house  in  this  disconsolate  manner?  Eleanor  had  gone  and 
it  was  idle  to  pretend  that  he  might  suddenly  come  to  her  in 
some  corner  of  the  flat.  It  was  much  too  early  to  go  to  bed 
and,  since  he  could  not  sit  still  indoors,  he  resolved  to  go 
out  and  walk  off  his  mood  of  depression  and  loneliness. 
The  trees  on  Hampstead  Heath  stood  up  in  deep  darkness, 
and  overhead  he  saw  the  innumerable  stars  shining  coldly. 
In  the  dusk  and  shadow  he  could  hear  the  murmur  of  sub- 
dued voices  and  now  and  then  a  peal  of  girlish  laughter,  or 
the  deeper  sound  of  a  man's  mirth.  Young,  eager-eyed 
men  and  women  went  by,  intent  on  love-making,  their  faces 
shining  with  youth  and  the  happiness  of  the  unburdened. 
All  the  beauty  of  the  world  lay  still  before  them,  untouched 


382  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

and  undimmed,  drawing  them  towards  it  with  rich  and 
strange  promises  of  wonderful  fulfilment.  And  no  shadow 
fell  upon  their 'happiness  to  darken  it  or  make  it  cold.  .  .  . 
He  could  feel  his  heart  singing  within  him,  and  he  asked 
himself  why  it  was  that  he  should  feel  happy  in  this  street, 
in  which  Eleanor  and  he  had  walked  in  love  together,  when 
he  had  felt  restless  and  unhappy  in  the  flat  where  they  had 
lived  and  loved.  He  stood  under  a  lamp  to  look  at  his 
watch,  and  wondered  where  Eleanor  was  now  .  .  .  what 
stage  of  her  journey  she  had  reached.  The  train  had  left 
Euston  at  half-past  eight,  and  now  the  hour  was  twenty 
minutes  past  ten.  Nearly  two  hours  since  she  had  gone 
away  from  him.  Sixty  or  eighty  miles,  perhaps  a  hundred, 
separated  them,  and  every  moment  the  distance  between 
them  was  lengthening.  He  could  stand  here,  leaning 
against  these  rails  and  looking  over  the  hollows  of  the  Heath 
towards  the  softened  glare  of  London,  and  almost  tell  off  the 
miles  that  were  consumed  by  the  rushing,  roaring  train ! 
.  .  .  One  mile  .  .  .  two  miles  .  .  .  three  miles !  .  .  . 

The  laughter  and  the  shining  eyes  of  the  young  lovers 
made  him  feel  old.  now  that  Eleanor  was  not  with  him  to 
make  him  feel  young.  He  felt  old,  though  he  was  not  old, 
because  he  was  lonely  again,  more  lonely  than  he  had  been 
before  he  saw  Eleanor  at  the  Albert  Hall.  He  had  fol- 
lowed her  as  a  man  lost  in  a  desert  follows  a  star,  and  she 
had  brought  him  home  at  last  .  .  .  and  now  she  was  gone 
from  him,  bearing  a  baby.  Soon,  though,  very  soon,  the 
time  would  pass  and  she  would  return  to  him  and  they 
would  never  be  separated  again.  He  would  fulfil  his  de- 
sires. He  would  write  great  books  and  great  plays,  and 
Eleanor  would  grow  in  loveliness  and  dignity,  and  his  son 
.  .  .  for  he  was  certain  that  the  child  would  be  a  boy  .  .  . 
would  reach  up  from  childhood  to  manhood  in  strength  and 
beauty!  .  .  . 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  383 


Vll 

The  last  post  had  brought  the  proofs  of  his  second  novel 
to  him.  He  tore  the  packet  open,  and  began  to  correct  them 
at  once.  Hearts  of  Controversy  was  the  title  of  the  book, 
and  it  was  dedicated : 

To  the  Memory  of  my  Uncle  Matthew. 


THE  FOURTH  CHAPTER 


WHEN  Eleanor's  son  was  born,  John  was  still  in  London. 
He  had  intended  to  be  with  her,  but  Mr.  Clotworthy  would 
not  give  leave  to  him  because  of  illness  among  the  staff. 
"I'm  sorry,"  he  had  said,  "but  I  can't  let  you  go.  You'd 
only  be  in  the  way  anyhow.  A  man 's  a  cursed  nuisance  at 
a  time  like  that.  When  Corcoran  comes  back,  I'll  see  if  I 
can  manage  a  few  days  for  you ! ' '  John  murmured  thanks 
and  turned  to  go.  "I  hear  good  accounts  of  you,"  Mr. 
Clotworthy  continued.  "Tarleton  says  you're  working 
splendidly.  I'm  glad  you've  learned  sense  at  last !"  John 
smiled  rather  drearily,  and  then  left  the  editor 's  room.  So 
he  was  learning  sense,  was  he  ?  ...  A  few  months  ago,  had 
Mr.  Clotworthy  told  him  that  leave  to  go  to  his  wife  was 
denied  to  him,  he  would  have  sent  Mr.  Clotworthy  to  blazes 
.  .  .  but  he  was  learning  sense  now,  and  so,  though  he  ached 
to  go  to  Eleanor,  he  was  remaining  in  London.  Tarleton 
.  .  .  the  most  common-minded  man  John  had  ever  encoun- 
tered .  .  .  said  that  he  was  working  splendidly.  They 
were  all  pleased  with  him.  He  could  invent  headlines  and 
cross-headings  and  write  paragraphs  to  the  satisfaction  of 
Tarleton,  whose  conception  of  a  romantic  love  story  was 
some  dull,  sordid  intrigue  heard  in  the  Divorce  Court. 
Tarleton  always  described  a  street  accident  as  a  tragedy. 
Tarleton  referred  ...  in  print  ...  to  the  greedy  amours 
of  a  chorus  girl  as  a  " Thrilling  Romance  of  the  Stage," 
though  he  had  other  words  to  describe  them  in  conversation. 
And  John  was  giving  satisfaction  to  Tarleton.  .  .  . 

384 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  885 

He  wrote  to  his  mother  and  to  Eleanor  explaining  why 
he  could  not  immediately  go  to  Ballyards.  Eleanor  could 
not  reply  to  his  letter,  but  Mrs.  MacDermott  wrote  that  she 
was  recovering  rapidly  from  her  illness  and  that  the  baby 
was  a  fine,  healthy  child.  "A  MacDermott  to  the  back- 
bone," she  wrote.  tclt's  queer  work  that  keeps  a  man  out 
of  his  bed  half  the  night  and  won't  let  him  go  to  his  wife 
when  she's  having  a  child!  Your  Uncle  William  isn't 
looking  well  .  .  .  he  feels  the  weight  of  his  years  and  the 
work  on  him  .  .  .  and  he  is  worried  about  the  shop.  But 
he's  greatly  pleased  with  Eleanor  being  here.  Him  and  her 
gets  on  well  together.  He's  near  demented  over  the 
child!  .  .  ." 

ii 

His  son  was  a  month  old  before  John  saw  him.  Mrs. 
MacDermott  led  him  to  the  cradle  where  the  baby  was 
sleeping,  and  as  he  looked  down  on  it,  the  child  awoke  and 
screwed  up  its  face  and  began  to  cry.  Mrs.  MacDermott 
took  it  in  her  arms  and  soothed  it. 

"Well?"  she  said  to  John. 

He  looked  at  the  child  with  puzzled  eyes.  "Is  it  all 
right?"  he  asked. 

"All  right!"  she  exclaimed.  "Of  course,  it's  all  right  I 
What  would  be  wrong  with  it  ?  " 

"It's  so  ugly-looking!  ..." 

She  stared  incredulously  at  him.  ' '  Ugly, ' '  she  said,  "  it 's 
a  beautiful  baby.  One  of  the  loveliest  children  I've  ever 
clapped  my  eyes  on.  Look  at  it!  .  .  ."  She  held  the  baby 
forward  to  him. 

"I  can  see  it  right  enough,"  he  answered.  "I  think  it's 
ugly!" 

"You  don't  know  a  fine-looking  child  when  you  see  it, 
she  answered  indignantly. 

He  went  back  to  Eleanor's  room  ...  she  was  out  of  bed 
now,  but  because  the  day  was  cold  was  sitting  before  a  fire 


386  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

in  her  bedroom  .  .  .  and  sat  with  her  while  she  talked  of 
little  things  that  had  happened  to  her  during  their  separa- 
tion. "You  know,  John,"  she  said,  "you're  not  looking 
well.  You  're  getting  thin  and  grey !  .  .  . " 

"Grey?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  your  face  looks  grey.  I'm  sure  that  life  isn't 
good  for  you ! ' ' 

"I  feel  tired,  but  that  may  be  the  journey.  The  sea  was 
rough  last  night,  crossing  from  Liverpool  to  Belfast,  and  I 
didn't  get  any  sleep.  Mebbe  that's  what  it  is.  I  daresay 
I  '11  be  looking  all  right  to-morrow ! ' ' 

' '  How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  ? ' '  she  asked. 

"Well,  Clotworthy  told  me  to  get  back  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. Do  you  think  you'll  be  able  to  come  home  with  me 
at  the  end  of  the  week  ? ' ' 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Of  course,"  he  went  on,  "we've  got  to  get  the  tenants 
out  of  the  flat  first.  I  thought  mebbe  you'd  come  to  Miss 
Squibb 's  with  me  till  the  flat  was  ready ! ' ' 

' '  I  don 't  think  I  should  like  that, ' '  she  answered. 

"No,  mebbe  not,  but  I'm  terribly  lonesome  without  you, 
Eleanor.  It 's  been  miserable  all  this  while !  .  .  . " 

She  put  her  arms  about  him  and  kissed  him.  "Poor  old 
thing, ' '  she  said. 

"And  I'd  like  you  to  came  home  as  soon  as  possible." 

Mrs.  MacDermott  brought  the  baby  into  the  room. 
' '  John  says  he 's  an  ugly  child, ' '  she  said  to  Eleanor,  glanc- 
ing angrily  at  her  son. 

"Oh,  John!"  Eleanor  exclaimed  reproachfully.  "He 
isn  't  ugly.  He 's  handsome  !  .  .  . " 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  women  call  beautiful  or 
handsome,"  John  said,  "but  if  you  call  that  screwed- 
up  face  good-looking,  then  I  don't  know  what  good  looks 
are!" 

"I'm  sure  you  weren't  half  so  beautfiul  as  baby  is," 
Eleanor  murmured. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  387 

Mrs.  MacDermott  put  the  child  in  its  mother's  arms,  and 
happed  the  covering  about  its  head.  "Eight  pounds  he 
weighed  when  he  was  born,"  she  said.  "Eight  pounds! 
And  then  you  say  he  isn  't  beautiful !  And  him  your  own 
son,  too ! ' ' 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  only  mean  he's  weighty  when  you  say 
he 's  beautiful,  mebbe  you  're  right !  .  .  . " 

"You're  unnatural,  John,"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott. 

"Are  all  babies  like  that?"  he  asked. 

"All  the  good-looking  ones  are.  Give  him  to  me  again, 
Eleanor,  dear!"  She  took  the  baby  from  its  mother,  and 
holding  it  tightly  in  her  arms,  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  singing  it  to  sleep.  "He's  asleep,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper,  coming  closer  to  them.  She  held  the  child  so  that 
they  could  see  the  tiny  face  in  the  firelight.  They  did  not 
speak.  Eleanor,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  and  John  sitting 
forward  in  his,  and  Mrs.  MacDermott  standing  with  the 
baby  in  her  arms,  looked  on  the  child. 

"I'm  its  father,"  said  John,  at  last.  "That  seems 
comic ! ' ' 

"And  I'm  its  mother,"  Eleanor  murmured. 

Mrs.  MacDermott  lifted  the  child  so  that  her  lips  could 
touch  its  tiny  mouth.  ' '  Five  generations  in  the  one  house, ' ' 
she  said.  ' '  I  bless  God  for  this  day ! ' ' 

iii 

"Will  you  be  able  to  come  with  me  to  London  at  the  end 
of  the  week?"  John  said  at  tea  that  evening. 

"She's  not  near  herself  yet,"  Uncle  William  exclaimed. 

"No,  indeed  she's  not.  You'd  best  leave  her  here  an- 
other month, ' '  Mrs.  MacDermott  added. 

"You're  forgetting,  aren't  you  that  she's  been  here  more 
than  three  months  already. ' ' 

"Och,  what's  three  months  when  you're  young,"  Uncle 
William  replied. 


388  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"A  great  deal,"  said  John.  ''Will  you  be  ready,  do  you 
think,  Eleanor?" 

Eleanor  hesitated.  ' '  I  don 't  know, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  don 't 
feel  very  well  yet.  Can 't  you  stay  on  a  while  longer,  John  ? 
You  know  you're  tired  and  need  a  rest,  and  it'll  do  you  a 
lot  of  good  to  stay  on  for  a  week  or  two ! ' ' 

' '  I  must  get  back.  I  've  a  living  to  earn  for  three  of  us 
now!" 

"I  shall  be  sorry  to  leave  Ballyards,"  Eleanor  replied. 

"There's  no  need  for  either  of  you  to  leave  it,"  Mrs. 
MacDermott  exclaimed.  "Your  home's  here  and  there's  no 
necessity  for  you  to  go  tramping  the  world  among  stran- 
gers ! ' ' 

"We've  settled  all  that,  ma !"  John  retorted. 

' '  You  don 't  like  that  life  on  newspapers,  do  you,  John  ? ' ' 
Eleanor  asked. 

"No,  but  I  have  to  live  it  until  I  can  earn  enough  to  keep 
us  from  my  books.  It's  no  use  arguing,  ma.  My  mind's 
made  up  on  that  subject.  It  was  made  up  long  ago!" 
Constraint  fell  upon  them,  and  John,  feeling  that  he  must 
make  conversation  again,  turned  to  his  Uncle.  "How's 
the  shop  doing?"  he  asked. 

"Middling  .  .  .  middling,"  Uncle  William  replied. 
"We're  having  a  wee  bit  of  opposition  to  fight  against. 
One  of  these  big  firms  has  just  opened  a  branch  here.  Pip- 
pin's! They're  causing  me  a  bit  of  anxiety,  the  way 
they're  cutting  prices  down,  but  I  think  we'll  hold  our  own 
with  them.  We  always  gave  good  value  for  the  money,  and 
some  of  these  big  shops  only  pretends  to  do  that.  But  it's 
anxious  work ! ' ' 

"A  MacDermott  ought  to  be  ready  to  fight  for  the  good 
name  of  his  family,"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott. 

"Oh,  I'm  wiUing  to  fight  all  right,"  Uncle  William  an- 
swered. 

"I  know  you  are.  I  wasn't  doubting  you,"  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dermott assured  him. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  389 

Their  conversation  became  vague  and  disjointed.  Sev- 
eral times  John  turned  to  Eleanor  and  tried  to  settle  a  date 
on  which  she  should  return  to  town,  but  on  each  occasion 
something  interrupted  them,  and  Eleanor  showed  no  in- 
clination to  be  definite.  "There's  no  hurry  for  a  day  or 
two,  is  there  ? ' '  she  said  at  last,  and  then,  pleading  fatigue, 
she  went  to  bed. 

"I  can't  see  what  you  want  to  go  back  to  London  for," 
Mrs.  MacDermott  said  when  Eleanor  had  gone.  "The 
neither  of  you  don't  look  well  on  that  life,  and  you  could 
write  your  books  here  just  as  well  as  you  can  there.  Better, 
mebbe!  Eleanor  likes  Bally ards.  She  doesn't  care  much 
for  London."  , 

Suspicion  entered  John's  mind.  "Have  you  been  put- 
ting notions  into  her  head  ? "  he  demanded. 

' '  Notions !    What  notions  ? ' '  she  answered  innocently. 

"You  know  rightly  what  notions.  Have  you  been  try- 
ing to  persuade  her  to  stay  here  ? ' ' 

"  It 's  well  you  know,  my  son,  I  never  try  to  persuade  no 
one  to  do  anything.  I  just  let  them  find  things  out  for 
themselves.  It 's  the  best  way  in  the  end. ' ' 

"As  long  as  you  act  up  to  that,  you  can  do  what  you 
like,"  John  said.  "You  may  as  well  know,  though,  for 
good  and  all,  that  we're  going  back  to  London.  I've  a  new 
book  coming  out  soon !  .  .  . " 

' '  I  wonder  will  you  make  as  much  out  of  it  as  you  made 
out  of  your  other  book,"  Mrs.  MacDermott  said. 

iv 

There  was  a  letter  for  John  in  the  morning.  His  sub- 
tenant wrote  to  say  that  he  liked  the  flat  and  found  it  so 
convenient  that  he  was  very  anxious  to  know  whether 
there  was  a  chance  of  John  giving  up  possession  of 
it.  He  was  willing  to  buy  the  furniture  at  a  fair  valua- 
tion! . 


390  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

"Damned  cheek,"  said  John.  He  told  the  others  of  the 
contents  of  the  letter. 

"If  we  were  to  stay  here,"  Eleanor  said,  "that  offer 
would  be  very  useful,  wouldn  't  it  ? " 

"It's  of  no  use  to  us,"  he  answered.  "We're  not  going 
to  stay  here ! ' ' 

In  the  afternoon,  a  telegram  came  from  Clotworthy  in- 
structing John  to  return  to  London  immediately.  "Will 
you  come  with  me  or  come  later  by  yourself?"  John  said 
to  Eleanor. 

She  hesitated  for  a  few  moments,  then  going  quickly  to 
him  and  putting  her  arms  about  his  neck,  she  whispered, 
' '  I  don 't  want  to  go  back  to  London,  John.  I  want  to  stay 
here!" 

"You  what?" 

"I  want  to  stay  here.  Oh,  give  up  this  work  and  stay 
at  home.  Your  Uncle  is  getting  old  and  needs  help,  and  I  '11 
be  much  happier  here  than  in  London !  .  .  . " 

' '  Give  up  writing !  .  .  . " 

"You'll  be  able  to  do  some  writing  here  if  you  want  to !" 

"Uncle  William  hasn't  time  to  take  a  holiday.  What 
time  will  I  have  to  write  if  I  take  on  his  work  ? ' ' 

' '  He  has  no  one  to  help  him.     I  '11  help  you ! "  ' 

"The  thing's  absurd!" 

"No,  it  isn't.  I  like  being  in  the  shop.  I've  helped 
Uncle  William  a  lot.  I've  made  suggestions!  ..." 

' '  My  mother  put  this  idea  into  your  head ! ' ' 

"No,  she  didn't.  She's  talked  to  me  about  Ballyards, 
of  course,  and  the  MacDermotts  and  the  shop,  but  she  has 
not  asked  me  to  stay  here.  It's  my  own  idea.  I  like  this 
little  town,  John,  and  its  quiet  ways  and  the  comfort  of 
this  house.  I  've  always  wanted  comfort  and  quietness,  and 
I  've  got  it  here.  I  don 't  want  to  go  back  to  the  misery  of 
London  .  .  .  always  wondering  whether  we  shall  have 
enough  money  to  pay  our  bills,  and  you  out  half  the  night. 
Oh,  let's  stay  here!" 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  391 

He  put  her  away  from  him.  "No,"  he  said  obstinately. 
"I'm  not  going  to  give  in!  .  .  ." 

"I'm  not  asking  you  to  give  in!" 

"You  are.  You're  asking  me  to  come  back  here  where 
everybody  knows  me  and  knows  what  I  went  out  to  do,  and 
you  're  asking  me  to  admit  to  them  that  I  've  failed ! ' ' 

"No,  no,  dear!  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  you  are.  Because  I  haven't  made  a  fortune  at 
the  start,  you  all  think  I'm  a  failure.  Hasn't  every  man 
had  to  struggle  and  fight  for  his  position,  and  amn  't  I  fight- 
ing and  struggling  for  mine  ?  If  you  cared  for  me !  .  .  . " 

"  I  do  care  for  you,  John ! ' ' 

"Then  you'd  be  glad  to  fight  with  me  .  .  .  and  strug- 
gle! .  .  ." 

' '  Yes,  I  am  prepared  to  fight  with  you  .  .  .  but  I  'm  not 
going  to  take  risks  with  the  baby!  ..." 

"What's  he  got  to  do  with  it?" 

She  turned  on  him  angrily.  "Are  you  willing  to  let  him 
suffer  for  your  books,  too  ?  Do  you  think  I  'm  going  to  let 
my  child  go  without  things  to  feed  your  pride?  ..." 

"He  won't  have  to  go  without  things.  I'll  earn  enough 
for  him  and  for  you. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  know.  We've  seen  something  of  that  already. 
Well,  I'm  not  going  back  to  London,  John.  I'm  simply 
not  going  back.  You  can't  expect  me  to  go  from  this 
house  where  I'm  happy  to  that  little  poky  flat  in  H amp- 
stead  and  sit  there  night  after  night  while  you  are  at  the 
office!  .  .  ." 

"Other  women  do  it,  don't  they?" 

' '  Other  women  can  do  what  they  like.  If  they  're  con- 
tent to  live  like  that,  they  can,  but  I'm  not  content.  I 
don't  like  that  life,  and  I  won't  live  it.  You  must  make 
up  your  mind  to  that.  It  isn't  necessary  for  you  to  go 
back  to  the  Sensation  office — you  can  stay  here  and  help 
Uncle  William!" 

"Become  a  grocer!  ..." 


392 

"Why  not?  Isn't  it  better  to  be  a  good  grocer  than  a 
bad  novelist ! ' ' 

His  face  flushed  and  he  breathed  very  heavily.  "You're 
all  against  me,  the  whole  lot  of  you.  You  make  little  of 
me.  I  get  no  help  or  encouragement  at  all.  My  ma  and 
you  and  Hinde !  .  .  . " 

"If  you  were  good  at  that  work,  you  would  not  need  en- 
couragement, would  you?" 

"I  don't  need  it.  I  can  do  without  it.  I'll  prove  to 
you  yet  that  I  can  write  as  well  as  anybody.  Never  you 
fear,  Eleanor!  ..." 

"I'm  not  going  back  to  London,"  she  said. 

"Well,  then,  you  can  stay  behind.  I'll  go  back  by  my- 
self!" 

Mrs.  MacDermott  came  into  the  room.  "What 's  the  mat- 
ter?" she  asked. 

"Nothing,"  John  replied.  "I'm  going  back  to  London 
this  evening.  Eleanor  says  she's  going  to  stay  here!  ..." 

"For  good?" 

"Aye  .  .  .  for  good." 

"And  you?    When  are  you  coming  back?" 

"I'm  not  coming  back.  She'll  have  to  come  to  me. 
You're  always  talking  about  the  pride  of  the  MacDermotts. 
Well,  I'll  show  you  some  of  it.  I'll  not  put  my  foot  inside 
this  house  till  Eleanor  comes  back  to  me.  It's  me  that  set- 
tles where  we  live  .  .  .  not  her  .  .  .  not  anybody.  Do  you 
think  I'm  going  to  throw  up  everything  now  when  I've 
made  a  start.  I've  a  new  book  coming  out  soon.  You 
know  that  well  .  .  .  the  whole  of  you.  I  know  you  don't 
think  much  of  it,  Eleanor!  ..." 

"I  didn't  say  that,"  she  interjected. 

' '  But  I  think  a  lot  of  it.  I  know  it 's  good.  I  'm  sure  it 's 
good.  And  if  it  does  well,  I'll  be  able  to  leave  the  Sensa- 
tion office,  and  we  can  live  happily  together  .  .  .  but  you  '11 
have  to  come  to  me.  I  won 't  come  here  to  you !  .  .  . " 

He  turned  to  his  mother.     "Mebbe  you're  content  now," 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  393 

he  said.  ' '  You  've  got  your  way.  There 's  a  MacDermott  in 
the  house  to  carry  on  the  business  when  he's  old  enough. 
You  '11  not  need  me  now ! ' ' 

He  went  out  of  the  room,  slamming  the  door  behind  him, 
and  a  little  while  later,  they  heard  him  leaving  the  house. 

"Wait,  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott,  taking  hold 
of  Eleanor  by  the  hand.  "Don't  fret  yourself,  daughter, 
dear.  I  lived  with  his  father !  .  .  . " 

"But  he  always  had  his  own  way.  You  told  me  so  your- 
self." 

"Yes,  that's  true,  but  John  has  some  of  my  blood  in  him, 
and  my  blood  clings  to  its  home.  Content  yourself  a  wee 
while!" 


He  met  Uncle  William  crossing  the  Square,  and  suddenly 
he  realised  how  old  Uncle  William  was,  and  how  tired  he 
looked. 

' '  Come  a  piece  of  the  road  with  me, ' '  he  said,  putting  his 
arm  in  his  Uncle's.  "Eleanor  and  me  have  just  have  a 
fall-out,  and  I  want  to  walk  my  anger  off.  I'm  going  back 
to  London  to-night!  ..." 

"You're  going  soon,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes.  I  had  a  telegram  from  the  office  a  while  ago. 
Eleanor  doesn't  want  to  go  home.  She  wants  to  stay 
here!" 

"Aye,  she's  well  content  with  us!" 

"But  her  place  is  with  me.     I'm  her  husband!  ..." 

"Indeed,  you  are.  A  wife's  place  is  with  her  husband. 
It's  a  pity  you  can't  agree  to  be  in  the  same  place  1 

"Listen,  John,"  he  went  on,  as  they  came  away  from  the 
town  and  strolled  along  the  road  leading  to  the  Lough, 
"there's  a  thing  I'm  going  to  tell  you  that  I've  never  said 
to  no  one  before.  It's  this.  The  thing  that  destroyed  your 
father  and  your  Uncle  Matthew  was  their  pride  in  them- 
selves. They  never  stopped  to  consider  other  people. 


394  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

They  did  what  they  wanted  to  do  regardless  of  how  it 
affected  their  neighbours  or  their  friends.  And  nothing 
came  out  of  their  work.  Your  father  died  and  left  an  an- 
gry memory  behind  him.  Your  Uncle  Matthew  died  and 
left  nothing  but  a  wrong  view  of  things  to  you.  Your 
mother  .  .  .  well,  I  hardly  know  what  to  say  about  her. 
She's  had  much  to  thole,  and  it's  made  her  bitter  in  her 
mind,  and  many 's  a  time  I  think  she 's  demented  about  the 
pride  of  the  MacDermotts.  I'm  proud  of  my  name,  too, 
and  proud  of  the  respect  we've  earned  for  ourselves,  but 
I'm  old  and  tired,  John,  and  I've  nothing  to  comfort  me, 
and  the  pride  of  the  MacDermotts  gives  me  little  consola- 
tion for  the  things  I've  missed.  I'd  give  the  two  eyes  out 
of  my  head  to  have  a  wife  like  your  wife,  and  a  wee  child 
for  my  own,  but  I've  had  to  do  without  the  both  of  them. 
You  see,  John,  I  had  to  keep  the  family  going  when  the 
others  failed  to  support  it.  I  'd  be  a  glad  and  happy  man  if 
I  had  my  wife  and  my  child  in  the  shop  !  .  .  . " 

' '  Do  you  want  me  to  come  home  too,  then  ? ' ' 

' '  Every  man  must  do  the  best  for  himself.  I  'm  only  tell- 
ing you  not  to  eat  up  other  people's  lives  when  you're 
holding  on  to  your  own  opinion.  I  daresay  you  know 
what 's  best  for  yourself,  but  I  wonder  whether  you  '11  think 
that  in  ten  years'  time.  Or  twenty  years'  time.  If  you 
can  comfort  your  mind  with  the  thought  that  this  world  is 
a  romance,  the  way  your  Uncle  Matthew  did,  then  you'll 
mebbe  be  content,  but  I  never  saw  any  romance  in  it,  and  the 
only  comfort  I  get  from  it  is  the  thought  that  I  'm  keeping 
up  a  good  name.  The  MacDermotts  always  gave  good 
value  for  the  money.  I  wouldn't  mind  if  they  put  that 
on  my  gravestone ! ' '  He  changed  his  tone  abruptly.  ' '  Do 
you  think  you're  a  good  writer,  John?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  Uncle  William-.  I  try  hard  to  believe  I 
am,  but  I'm  not  sure.  Do  you  think  I  am?" 

' '  How  can  I  tell  ?     I  've  no  knowledge  of  these  things,  and 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  395 

I  can't  distinguish  between  my  pride  in  you  and  my  judg- 
ment. I  liked  your  book  well  enough,  but  I'm  doubtful 
would  I  have  bothered  my  head  about  it  if  someone  else  had 
written  it.  Is  your  next  book  a  good  one!" 

"/  think  so,  but  Eleanor  doesn't!" 

"The  position  isn't  very  satisfactory,  is  it*  You're  go- 
ing to  leave  that  young  girl  for  the  sake  of  something  that 
you  're  uncertain  of  ?  " 

"I  want  to  prove  my  worth  to  her!" 

"You  mean  you  want  to  content  yourself.  You  want  to 
make  her  think  you  were  right  and  she  was  wrong ! ' ' 

' '  I  have  my  pride !  .  .  . " 

"Aye,  you  have  your  pride,  but  I'm  wondering  would 
you  rather  have  that  than  Eleanor?" 

They  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  Lough  and  did  not 
speak  for  a  long  time.  John  picked  up  pebbles  and  threw 
them  into  the  water,  while  his  Uncle  gazed  at  the  opposite 
shore.  They  sat  there  until  it  was  time  to  go  home  to  tea. 

"We'd  better  be  moving,"  said  Uncle  William.  "Are 
you  settled  in  your  mind  that  you're  going  back  to  Lon- 
don?" 

"Yes,  "said  John. 

vi 

"Good-bye,  Eleanor!"  he  said  when  the  time  came  to 
catch  the  train  to  Belfast. 

"Good-bye,  John!" 

He  took  hold  of  her  hand  and  waited  for  her  to  offer  her 
lips  to  him,  but  she  did  not  offer  them. 

' '  If  you  change  your  mind, ' '  he  said,  but  she  interrupted 
him  quickly. 

"I  shan't  change  my  mind,"  she  said. 

"Very  well.     Good-bye!'' 

She  did  not  speak.     She  was  afraid  to  speak. 

"Well,  good-bye  again!"  he  said. 


396  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

He  turned  to  his  mother.  Her  eyes  were  very  bright, 
but  there  were  no  tears  in  them.  She  looked  steadily  at 
him. 

"It's  a  pity,"  she  said. 

Her  hand  sought  Eleanor's  and  pressed  it.  "We  must 
all  do  what 's  for  the  best, ' '  she  said.  ' '  None  of  us  can  do 
any  more ! ' ' 


THE  FIFTH  CHAPTER 


HE  oscillated  between  an  almost  uncontrollable  desire  to  re- 
turn to  Eleanor  and  a  cold  rage  against  her.  Women,  he 
told  himself,  always  stepped  between  men  and  their  work. 
Women  drew  men  away  from  great  labours  and  made  crea- 
tures of  comfort  of  them.  They  took  an  aspiring  angel  and 
made  a  domestic  animal  of  him.  He  was  prepared  to  en- 
dure hunger  and  thirst  for  righteousness'  sake,  but  Eleanor 
demanded  that  first  of  all  he  should  provide  comfort  and  se- 
curity for  her  and  her  child.  She  would  gladly  turn  a 
creative  artist  into  a  small  tradesman  for  the  sake  of  the 
greater  profit  that  was  made  by  the  small  tradesman.  He 
would  not  be  seduced  from  his  proper  work  .  .  .  and  yet, 
when  he  went  back  to  Miss  Squibb 's  after  the  Sensation 
had  gone  to  bed,  walking  sometimes  all  the  way  from  Fleet 
Street,  over  Blackfriars  Bridge,  he  would  spend  the  time  of 
the  journey  in  dreaming  of  Eleanor  as  he  first  saw  her  or 
as  he  saw  her  in  the  box  at  the  Albert  Hall  when  Tetrazzini 
sang.  He  would  conjure  up  pictures  of  her  standing  at  the 
bookstall  at  Charing  Cross,  waiting  for  him,  or  saying  good- 
bye to  him  at  the  steps  of  the  Women 's  Club  in  Bayswater 
or  kneeling  beside  him  in  St.  Chad's  Church  as  the  priest 
blessed  their  marriage  or  sitting  before  the  fire  in  Ballyards 
holding  her  baby  in  her  arms.  And  when  these  visions  of 
her  went  through  his  mind,  he  felt  an  intense  longing  to  go 
away  from  London  at  once  and  stay  contentedly  with  her 
wherever  she  chose  to  be.  Sometimes  his  mind  was  full  of 
thoughts  about  his  child.  He  had  not  felt  much  emotion 
about  it  when  he  was  at  Ballyards  ...  he  had  thought  of 

397 


398  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

it  mostly  with  amazement  and  with  some  dislike  of  its  shape- 
less face  .  .  .  but  now  there  were  stirrings  in  his  heart 
when  he  thought  of  it,  and  he  wished  that  he  could  be  with 
Eleanor  and  watch  the  gradual  growth  of  the  baby  into  a 
recognising  being.  His  work  at  the  Sensation  office  had  be- 
come mechanical,  and  he  worked  at  the  table  in  the  sub-edi- 
tors' room  without  any  consciousness  of  it;  but  he  consoled 
himself  for  the  fatigue  and  the  dullness  by  promising  him- 
self a  swift  and  brilliant  release  from  Fleet  Street  when  his 
second  book  was  published.  Even  .if  his  book  were  not  to 
make  money,  it  would  establish  his  reputation,  and  when 
that  was  done,  he  could  surely  persuade  Eleanor  to  believe 
that  his  life  must  be  lived  elsewhere  than  behind  the  counter 
of  the  shop.  He  had  written  to  her  several  times  since  his 
return  to  London,  and  she  had  written  to  him,  but  there 
were  signs  of  restraint  in  his  letters  and  in  hers.  He  told 
her  that  he  had  made  arrangements  for  the  sub-tenants  to 
remain  in  the  flat  for  the  present.  He  wrote  ' '  for  the  pres- 
ent" deliberately.  The  phrase  that  shaped  itself  in  his 
mind  as  he  wrote  the  letter  was  "until  you  come  back  to 
London, ' '  but  he  changed  it  before  he  put  his  thoughts  into 
written  words.  She  gave  long  accounts  of  the  baby  to  him, 
and  described  her  life  in  Ballyards.  She  was  helping  Uncle 
William  who  said  that  her  help  was  very  useful  to  him. 
They  were  going  to  fight  Pippin's  multiple  shops  and  beat 
them.  She  had  suggested  some  alterations  in  the  shop  to 
Uncle  William,  and  he,  agreeing  that  one  must  move  with 
the  times,  had  consented  to  make  the  alterations.  She  did 
not  ask  John  to  come  back,  but  when  he  read  her  letters,  he 
felt  that  she  was  preventing  herself,  with  difficulty,  from 
doing  so. 

ii 

A  month  after  his  return  to  London,  Hearts  of  Contro- 
versy was  published.  He  took  the  complimentary  copies 
out  of  their  parcel  and  fingered  them,  turning  the  leaves 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  399 

backward  and  forward,  and  looking  for  a  long  while  at  the 
dedication  "To  the  Memory  of  ray  Uncle  Matthew."  How 
pleased  and  proud  Uncle  Matthew  would  have  been  of  this 
book,  'but  how  little  pleasure  John  was  deriving  from  it. 
He  hardly  cared  now  whether  it  failed  or  succeeded.  If 
only  something  would  happen  that  would  enable  him  to  re- 
turn to  Ballyards  and  Eleanor  with  some  sort  of  pride  left ! 
.  .  .  Uncle  Matthew's  romantic  dreams  had  remained  ro- 
mantic dreams  because  he  had  never  left  Ballyards;  but 
John  had  gone  out  into  the  world  to  seek  adventures,  and  all 
of  them  had  ended  dismally  .  .  .  except  his  adventure  with 
Eleanor.  He  had  pursued  her  and  won  her  and  made  her 
his  wife  and  the  mother  of  his  son,  and  she  was  still  his, 
even  although  he  had  left  her  and  was  living  angrily  away 
from  her.  He  remembered  how  he  had  wandered  into 
Hanging  Sword  Alley  when  he  first  came  to  London,  and 
had  been  bitterly  disappointed  to  find  that  this  romanti- 
cally-named lane  was  a  dirty,  grimy  gutter  of  a  street.  .  .  . 

"I've  been  living  a  fool's  life,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I 
had  one  great  adventure,  finding  Eleanor,  and  I  did  not 
realise  that  that  was  the  only  romance  I  could  hope  for ! " 

He  put  the  book  down.  "I'm  not  a  writer,"  he  said 
mournfully,  "I'm  a  grocer.  I'm  not  even  a  grocer.  I'm 
...  a  hack  journalist!" 

He  had  written  a  tragedy  that  was  dead.  He  had  writ- 
ten a  novel  that  was  dead.  This  second  novel  ...  in  a  lit- 
tle while  it,  too,  would  be  dead.  Perhaps  it  was  dead  al- 
ready. Perhaps  it  had  never  been  alive.  And  he  had  writ- 
ten a  music-hall  sketch  .  .  .  that  lived.  He  had  done  no 
other  work  than  his  sub-editing  on  the  Sensation  since  his 
return  to  London,  and  he  realised  that  he  would  never  do 
any  more  while  he  remained  in  Fleet  Street.  .  .  . 

Hinde  entered  the  room  while  these  thoughts  were  in  his 
mind.  "When's  Eleanor  coming  back?"  he  asked,  throw- 
ing himself  into  a  chair  in  front  of  the  fire. 

"She's  not  coming  back,"  John  answered. 


400  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

Hinde  looked  up  sharply.  ' '  Oh  ? "  he  said  in  a  question- 
ing manner. 

"I'm  going  to  her  ...  as  soon  as  I  can.  I've  had  my 
fill  of  this  life.  Do  you  remember  asking  me  why  I  didn't 
sell  happorths  of  tea  and  sugar  ? ' '  Hinde  nodded  his  head. 
"Well,  I'm  going  back  to  sell  them.  The  author  of  The 
Enchanted  Lover  and  Hearts  of  Controversy  has  retired 
from  the  trade  of  writing  and  will  now  .  .  .  now  devote 
himself  to  ...  selling  happorths  of  tea  and  sugar ! "  He 
laughed  nervously  as  he  spoke. 

Hinde  did  not  make  any  reply. 

' '  I  shall  go  and  see  the  man  who  has  the  flat  to-morrow. 
He  wants  to  buy  our  furniture.  It's  a  piece  of  luck,  isn't 
it  ?  The  only  piece  of  luck  I  've  had.  .  .  .  By  God,  Hinde, 
this  serves  me  right.  Eleanor  always  said  I  was  selfish,  and 
I  am.  I  'm  terribly  self-satisfied  and  thick-skinned.  I  had 
no  qualification  for  this  work  .  .  .  nothing  but  my  conceit 
.  .  .  and  I've  been  let  down.  I'm  a  failure!  ..." 

"We're  all  failures,"  said  Hinde.  "The  only  thing  we 
can  do,  all  of  us,  is  to  lull  ourselves  to  sleep  and  hope  for 
forgetfulness.  Compared  with  you,  I  suppose  I'm  a  suc- 
cess ...  as  a  journalist  anyhow  .  .  .  but  this  is  the  end  of 
my  work  .  .  .  this  room,  with  Lizzie  and  Miss  Squibb  and 
sometimes  the  Creams.  You  Ve  got  Eleanor  and  a  son  .  .  . 
what  more  do  you  want?  Isn't  it  enough  luck  for  a  man 
to  have  a  wife  that  he  loves  and  who  loves  him,  and  to  have 
a  child ?  What's  a  book  anyway  ?  Paper  with  words  on  it. 
All  over  the  world,  there  are  thousands  and  thousands  of 
books  .  .  .  with  millions  and  millions  of  words  in  them. 
What 's  the  good  of  them  ?  We  make  a  little  stir  and  then 
we  die  ...  we  poor  scribblers.  And  that 's  all.  It 's  much 
better  to  marry  and  breed  healthy  babies  than  to  live  in  an 
attic  making  songs  about  the  stars.  The  stars  don't  care, 
but  the  babies  may ! ' ' 

"You're  a  cheerful  fellow,  Hinde,"  said  John,  rallying  a 
little. 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  401 

"Don't  pay  any  heed  to  me.  I  was  always  a  dismal  devil 
at  the  best  of  times.  You  see,  Mac,  I  Ve  got  ink  in  my  veins. 
I'm  not  a  man  ...  I'm  part  of  a  printing  press.  That's 
what  you'd  become  if  you  were  to  stay  in  Fleet  Street.  Go 
home,  my  lad,  and  get  more  babies!  ..." 


111 

He  wrote  to  Eleanor  that  night,  telling  her  that  he  would 
capitulate.  Immediately  he  had  settled  about  the  flat  and 
had  arranged  for  his  withdrawal  from  the  office  of  the  Sen- 
sation, he  would  return  to  Ballyards.  He  would  write  no 
more  books!  ...  In  the  morning,  there  was  a  letter  from 
Eleanor.  She  could  hold  out  no  longer.  If  he  would  come 
and  fetch  her  and  the  little  John,  she  would  do  whatever 
he  asked  of  her.  She  loved  him  so  much  that  she  could  not 
keep  up  this  pretence  of  strength !  .  .  . 

He  laughed  to  himself  as  he  read  her  letter.  ' '  She  wrote 
before  I  did, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  suppose  I  've  won.  I  suppose  I 
held  out  longer  than  she  did  .  .  .  but  I  don't  feel  that  I've 
gained  anything!" 

The  copies  of  Hearts  of  Controversy  were  lying  where  he 
had  left  them  on  the  previous  night.  "I  don't  care  what 
the  papers  say  about  them, ' '  he  said  to  himself  picking  one 
of  them  up.  "What's  a  book  anyway  when  I've  got 
Eleanor!" 

He  was  able  to  arrange  the  sale  of  his  furniture  to  the 
sub-tenant  and  get  his  release  from  the  Sensation  in  less 
than  a  week,  and  he  wired  to  Eleanor  to  say  that  he  was 
coming  home  and  would  arrive  at  Ballyards  on  Sunday. 
"I'm  going  home  with  my  tail  between  my  legs,"  he  said 
to  himself,  as  he  walked  down  the  gangway  from  the  Liver- 
pool boat  on  to  the  quay  at  Belfast.  He  was  too  early  for 
the  Ballyards  train,  and  he  went  for  a  walk  to  fill  the  time 
of  waiting.  He  passed  the  restaurant  where  Maggie  Car- 
michael  had  been  employed,  and  saw  that  a  new  name  was 


402  THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS 

on  the  lintel  of  the  door.  "Well,  I  hope  she's  happy  with 
her  peeler ! "  he  said  to  himself.  He  went  on,  and  presently 
found  himself  before  the  Theatre  Royal,  and  when  he 
glanced  at  the  playbills,  he  saw  that  a  Shakespearian  Com- 
pany were  in  possession  of  it.  Romeo  and  Juliet  had  been 
performed  on  Saturday  night,  and  he  remembered  the  line 
that  had  sustained  him  after  his  love-making  with  Maggie 
Carmichael : 

//  love  be  rough  with  you,  be  rough  with  love. 

"How  can  you?"  he  said  aloud.  "You  can't,  no  matter 
what  it  does  to  you ! ' ' 

He  went  at  last  to  the  station  and  caught  his  train  to 
Ballyards.  Eleanor  was  waiting  on  the  platform  for  him. 
She  did  not  speak  when  he  arrived.  She  ran  to  him  and 
put  her  arms  about  him  and  hugged  him  and  cried  over  him. 
' '  My  dear,  my  dear ! ' '  she  said  when  she  had  recovered  her- 
self. He  took  her  arm  and  led  her  out  of  the  station,  and 
they  walked  home  together. 

' '  It  was  terrible, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  had  to  fight  hard  to  keep 
myself  from  going  to  you.  We've  been  very  foolish,  John, 
haven't  we?" 

He  nodded  his  head. 

They  entered  the  house  by  the  side-door  and  went  into  the 
kitchen  where  Mrs.  MacDermott  was  preparing  the  mid-day 
meal.  She  waited  for  him  to  speak  to  her. 

"I've  come  home,  mother!"  he  said,  going  to  her  and 
kissing  her. 

"I'm  thankful  glad,  son!"  she  replied. 

iv 

Uncle  William  took  him  into  the  shop,  and  they  sat  to- 
gether on  stools  in  the  ' '  Counting  House. ' ' 


THE  FOOLISH  LOVERS  403 

"I'm  troubled,  John,"  be  said,  "about  the  shop.  Pip- 
pin 's  have  offered  to  buy  the  business !  .  .  . " 

' '  Buy  the  business.     But  we  don 't  want  to  sell  it ! " 

"I  know  that.  They're  threatening  me.  They  say 
they'll  undercut  me  till  my  trade's  gone.  I'm  too  old  to 
fight  them!  ..." 

John  called  to  his  mother  and  Eleanor.  "Come  here  a 
minute, ' '  he  said,  and  when  they  had  done  so,  he  told  them 
of  Pippin's  offer  and  threat.  "What  do  you  think  of 
that  ? "  he  demanded. 

' '  I  think  we  should  fight  them, ' '  said  Eleanor. 

"So  we  will,"  John  replied.  "The  MacDennotts  had  a 
name  in  this  town  before  ever  a  Pippin  was  heard  of,  and 
the  MacDermotts '11  still  have  a  name  when  the  Pippins  are 
dead  and  damned ! ' '  He  stopped  suddenly,  and  then  began 
to  laugh.  "By  the  Hokey  0,"  he  exclaimed,  "there's  a  ro- 
mance at  the  end  of  it  all ! " 

He  looked  at  his  mother.  "I'm  going  to  carry  on  the 
shop,  mother !"  he  said. 

She  did  not  answer.  She  put  out  her  hands  to  him,  and 
he  saw  that  she  was  smiling  with  great  content.  And  yet 
she  was  crying,  too. 


PMNT1D    IV    THE    rUTHCD   BTAT1S    OF    A1IK1WA 


c 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  U8BARY  FAOUTV 


A     000  034  509    0 


